Raenelle Gireau had not been blessed with beauty. The ugly duckling of her class in any given year, she waited patiently at first, and then with mounting irritation, for the transformation that would make her into a graceful swan. Her parents and a host of doting relatives made light of her concerns, assuring her that she was a "late bloomer," destined to achieve a beauty all her own... in time.
But time had not cooperated, and at twenty years of age, Raenelle had finally decided that the hand of nature needed some assistance from the hands of man.
Raenelle admitted to herself that she was plain, and early on she had determined to be beautiful. What she had lacked in glamour, the young woman more than compensated for in keen intelligence, and she had found a way of earning money for the magic transformation she desired. In junior college, she had introduced herself to half a dozen independent prostitutes in Buffalo, New York, and offered them her services as manager, accountant, general troubleshooter. With her knowledge of computers, she had organized a thriving out-call service, booking contacts in advance and reinvesting income for "her girls" at only ten percent commission. Word had spread like wildfire on the streets, and at the end of Raenelle's second year in business, she was managing a ring of more than sixty girls full-time.
She had been able to afford the plastic surgery that had turned her into someone her parents wouldn't have recognized. It scarcely mattered, since they had already learned of her activities at college and had disowned her. They would not take her calls, her letters were returned unopened and she finally stopped trying to secure their approval. She had finally blossomed, but no thanks were due to them, and when Raenelle lost her virginity at twenty-three, it was the first completely happy day of her life.
In time, the out-call service had attracted more than customers. The local Family was interested in anything that turned a profit on the far side of the law, and after an examination of the books, their representative had made an offer that Raenelle could not refuse. The syndicate absorbed her operation, bought her out at a substantial profit and installed her in the nation's capital. In three short years, she had become the ranking madam in a three-state area, with roots in Washington itself. Her girls had serviced diplomats from half the countries of the world, and they had not been overlooked by the domestic crop of politicians, either.
Raenelle's base of operations was the Venus Spa and Health Club, a retreat with membership reserved for an exclusive clientele. No member of the club had ever lifted weights or done aerobics on the premises, but that is not to say that they refrained from working out. Raenelle employed a staff of nubile "therapists" who were adept at handling the kinks their clients had developed in the course of diplomatic service. Stressing hands-on therapy and frequent repetition of procedures that produced the best result, her staff had never failed to satisfy.
Of course, the operation had not been her own since she had signed her contract with the syndicate, but when she thought about it, Raenelle told herself she didn't mind. The pay was excellent, the hours flexible and at her own discretion she could move among the girls herself, receiving from her guests the adulation and affection that had been denied her for so long. She did not concern herself with the affairs of her employers, and although she was aware of hidden cameras in a number of the rooms, she asked no questions of the stone-faced men who came at intervals to change the videocassettes. If blackmail was involved, if certain guests were forcefully persuaded to participate in profit-sharing enterprises, she was not involved. The fault could not be hers.
The Venus always had a decent crowd on Saturdays, and today was no exception. Raenelle surveyed the parlor from the doorway of her office on the second floor, counting nationalities. She picked out Africans, a pair of military officers from somewhere south of Texas, here a clutch of Orientals, there a group of Arabs in their flowing robes. At times like this, Raenelle imagined she was queen of the United Nations, studying her subjects from on high. But it was better this way; she had never heard of any queen receiving bonus pay for overtime and holidays.
She picked out the handsome stranger a moment after he arrived. One of her girls — a redhead, Stacy — was attempting to attach herself and work some action, but the guy was having none of it. He scrutinized the crowd with narrow eyes, and from her lookout post Raenelle could recognize him now.
The guy was trouble.
She caught him halfway to the bar, put one hand on his shoulder and he turned to face her with the fluid motion of a cat.
"What can I do for you?"
"You run this place?"
"That's right. I haven't seen you here before." She put on her best smile in case he might be one of Gianelli's men. "If I can get you something special..."
"You've got sixty seconds to evacuate this place before it blows," he told her, looking past the plastic smile and staring at her soul.
"What?"
"You're wasting time. We can't afford to let your customers get singed."
It finally came across that he was warning her.
"Who are you?"
"Never mind, I'll spread the word myself."
He took a backward step and hauled out an automatic pistol from beneath his coat, unleashing two shots at the ceiling. Even with the ringing in her ears, the startled screams from somewhere at her back, she heard him loud and clear when he addressed the customers and girls assembled in the lounge.
"We've had a bomb threat. Everybody out! Right now!"
As if on cue, a hollow thunderclap erupted from the general direction of the kitchen, rattling the walls and tinkling the chandelier above Raenelle's head. She smelled the acrid smoke before it started wafting through the parlor, and the crowd broke as a second, closer blast reverberated through the nearby dining room.
One of the Africans collided with Raenelle, and she staggered, would have fallen if the handsome stranger hadn't snaked an arm around her waist and kept her upright. He retreated toward the bar, and from that vantage point they watched the crowd stampede toward double doors that could not possibly accommodate them all at once. A shoving match erupted, and she watched as an Arab was pummeled to the ground by two Latin military types.
"My God, what's happening?"
"You're going out of business," he informed her.
Still carrying the pistol, he was fishing inside his jacket with his free hand, coming out with what she took to be a highway flare. He twisted off the plastic cap and swung it wide as sparks and colored smoke poured forth. A looping overhand, and Raenelle watched it sputter through the doorway of her office, out of sight. As she stood, dumbstruck, he removed two more of the incendiary sticks from hidden rigging worn beneath his coat, and lobbed them both across the railing of the second-story landing toward the bedrooms. Within a moment, more of Raenelle's girls and customers were scrambling toward the spiral staircase, breaking for the exits, most of them abandoning their clothes.
A shout from the direction of the dining room, and one of Gianelli's soldiers staggered through the drifting purple smoke, one hand still raking at his eyes, the other wrapped around an Army-issue .45. He was the token gesture toward security, superfluous until tonight and generally ignored. But he had Mr. Trouble's full attention now.
Before she had a chance to shout a warning, Raenelle saw the stranger pivot on his heel, the automatic in his fist already rising. At a range of twenty yards, he triggered off two shots in rapid fire, and Gianelli's soldier took them both directly in the face. Raenelle could feel her dinner coming up as blood and bone exploded from his cheeks, the impact lifting him completely off his feet and slamming him against the kitchen doorjamb.
The stranger stood beside her, waited while she finished retching. Then he drew her upright, pulling her in the direction of the nearest exit. As she followed him, Raenelle could hear the hungry crackle of the flames behind her, felt the glowing heat against her back. When they were clear and standing side by side on the lawn, he placed one hand beneath her chin and raised her eyes to meet his own.
"You're out of business," he repeated. "Permanently. Spread the word to Gianelli. Someone has a package that belongs to me. The heat stays on until I get it back."
Somehow, impossibly, she found her voice. "Who are you?"
"Gianelli knows. You see he gets the message."
"Yes."
And he was gone, a shadow merging with the other shadows. She couldn't tell for certain, but it seemed that everyone had gotten clear, except for Gianelli's soldier. He was roasting in the middle of it now, and Raenelle felt her stomach turning over once again.
She had a message for the boss, and she would pass it on as soon as she was finished with the fire department, the police and whoever else might be attracted to the fire like moths. She could predict the don's reaction in advance, but she would tell him all the same. Raenelle Gireau had no intention of allowing Gianelli to escape without some notion of the terror that she felt inside.
A survivor at the best, or worst, of times, she realized that she might have the opportunity to rebuild something for herself. As for the boss, he would be needing every bit of luck available when Mr. Trouble finally met him face-to-face.
Raenelle would not have traded places with Gianelli, not for all the money in the world. He was already marked, except he didn't know it yet.
The Anacostia waterfront was dark as Bolan nosed his rental car northeast along the riverside. Due south, the sprawl of Bolling Air Force Base was brightly lit around the clock, prepared for any airborne menace to the capital. Across the water, Fort McNair and the Washington Navy Yard represented other branches of the service, each on constant standby for emergencies. The soldier had no business with them now. His target was a different sort of fortress, and the occupants conducted their primary business in the dark of night.
The Smithfield Export warehouse was designed for maximum security. No windows opened on the outside world, and giant loading bays had long been welded shut, mute testimony to the bankruptcy proceedings that had closed the warehouse three years earlier. Within the weeks immediately following its closure, Smithfield Export's one and only piece of real estate had undergone dramatic — though invisible — revisions. Stripped of merchandise, it had been labored over night and day by workmen whose continued silence was ensured by lavish overtime, the cavernous interior divided into smaller rooms, each soundproof, insulated from the rest. Whatever might transpire inside those cloistered rooms was strictly private. Members of the closed fraternity had paid for privacy, and it had been elaborately guaranteed.
The warehouse was a "lockbox," in the parlance of the street, a house of prostitution catering to savage needs that other brothels could not — would not — satisfy. The customers were guaranteed complete security, but it was not for their protection solely that the building had been turned into a fortress. There was "merchandise" to be protected, also, and the human cattle of the lockbox were no ordinary prostitutes, recruited by the profit motive. Forcibly obtained and forcibly restrained, the lockbox residents were chosen for the needs of "special" customers, the Johns — and Janes — who needed "something extra" in their sexual diet. Catering primarily to "chicken hawks" — the pederasts who dote on brutalizing prepubescent children — the lockbox also served a small but wealthy clientele of sadists, necrophiles and other aberrants. No fantasy was too bizarre, too grisly for the management to entertain, and in three years of constant service, they had never failed to satisfy.
The man ostensibly in charge was Girolamo Lucchese, a.k.a. Gerry Lucas, a soldier with the Gianelli family who had served several prison terms — for rape and sodomy, molesting children, pandering, contributing to the delinquency of assorted minors. The recipient of pay beyond his lowly rank, Lucchese wore the label of a button man without complaint. He understood that it was insulation for the capo, something in the way of guaranteed security in case the lockbox should be penetrated. If and when that happened, Lucchese would be on his own, but through continued silence he could guarantee himself the best in legal talent, a continuation of his salary regardless of the outcome and a ready-made position in the Family upon release from jail. It was an offer he could scarcely have refused, since the alternative — providing testimony for the prosecution — would have meant his very painful death.
Lucchese was a man who valued pain. Infliction of it granted him the sort of sexual release that he had never found through normal channels, and he realized that pain was also educational, a useful tool for discipline. Receiving pain was something else entirely, though, and he knew that he could do a lot of time before he cracked and spilled the secrets of the Gianelli family. Hell, life would be a piece of cake compared to death the way that Gianelli's contract butchers dealt it out.
Mack Bolan knew Lucchese through his files at Justice, though the two of them had never met before tonight. Lucchese would have known Bolan by his reputation, but the Executioner would not be on his mind this evening. Having found a means of merging business with his pleasure, profiting from both, the mobster would be concentrating on his clients and their special needs. The Executioner was counting on it. The lockbox had no roving guards outside; Lucchese had decided that invisibility was preferable to an army on the street, and his exterior security was unobtrusive. Bolan's single pass was all it took to make the nondescript sedan, two passengers. The vehicle had been parked a half block down and faced the fortress warehouse, waiting for a danger signal that had not been used in three years.
The operation was protected at many levels. There were payoffs to be made at local levels, but Lucchese's customers themselves provided further insulation. Many of them crawled from under diplomatic rocks to seek their pleasures in the lockbox, representatives of European, Asian, African or Middle Eastern countries on duty in the nation's capital. Immune themselves to any charge of criminal behavior, they exerted a collective pull beyond their individual capacity, ensuring that authorities along the waterfront remained myopic, deaf and dumb.
The Executioner knew of the Lucchese-Gianelli alliance, and knew that it would never stand in court. If he had been a prosecutor or detective, Bolan would have busted Lucchese's operation anyway, preferring short-term gains to lasting victories. But as it was, he had a different goal in mind. The Executioner was not obliged to prove his case before a jury, satisfying all the rules of evidence, maneuvering among the countless technicalities that made the legal system work halfheartedly at best. His mission was retrieval of Brognola's wife and children, and his modus operandi was the Gianelli squeeze. His other scattered thrusts would have the capo fuming, anxious to retaliate.
Bolan parked his car in a narrow alleyway and shed his topcoat, taking time to double-check his weapons prior to going EVA. He was a shadow gliding through the darkness as he backtracked toward the plug car, moving close enough to make a positive ID of hardmen on the job before his silenced Beretta sent them to eternal sleep.
The lockbox stood before him, undefended. All he had to do was get inside and get back out again. Alive.
He used a compact grappling hook and nylon line to reach the roof, and said a silent prayer of thanks that soundproof insulation worked both ways. As he had expected, there was a skylight, plate glass painted black against the sun and any chance of outside scrutiny. Whoever did the painting, though, had done it from the outside, standing where the soldier stood, and Bolan had no difficulty flaking off a dime-size chip of paint to provide him with a peephole to the room beneath.
An unoccupied bedroom, Spartan in its furnishings. He marked the cot and mattress, straight-backed wooden chairs, a folding table. Access to the room was through a single door and it would be from that direction that the danger would come, if any came at all.
He eased around the skylight, found the location where he figured the latch would be inside, and spent a moment clearing paint away to verify its placement. Pockets of his skinsuit surrendered strapping tape, a slender glass cutter, and the soldier went to work, etching a circle the size of a softball, inserting cautious fingers, feeling all along the sill for an alarm that wasn't there. When he was satisfied, he turned the simple latch and eased back the skylight retrieving rope and grappling hook for his descent.
The Executioner landed like a cat, the mini-Uzi in his hand almost before he had released the nylon line, alert for any sight or sound of danger. He was in, but that was only half the battle — less, if Gianelli had his troops in residence. Somewhere within the lockbox, he would find Lucchese, and the ghoul would take a message back to Gianelli for him, if the Executioner could find a way to spare the bastard's life. If not, well, he would write it off and find some other way to get the message through. It might be worth the extra effort just to see Lucchese die.
Fire and thunder were the ticket now, and Bolan braced himself, prepared to make the move that would begin his sweep — or end it, very suddenly. He threw the door back, glanced both ways along the empty corridor and moved out to his left. There were three doors on either side and at the end of the narrow corridor, a stairwell led down to other chambers and the street.
He tried the first door on his left and found it open. In a carbon-copy bedroom, Bolan stumbled upon a scene that made him feel like retching. He fought the urge to find a tap, wash the faint away. He drew his combat knife and severed the bindings that restrained a teenaged girl to the bed. The other occupant of the room, a gray-haired matron in leather mask and corset, spluttered in protest at the interruption of her "pleasure." Bolan backhanded her across the face and she toppled unconscious to the floor. He helped the former captive to her feet, retrieved a sheet to preserve what was left of her dignity.
"Wait five minutes," Bolan told her, when he had convinced himself that she was not in shock, "then make it to the street. That's left, and down the stairs. You'll have some company by then."
"Okay."
"You've got one chance," he cautioned her. "Don't blow it."
"I won't." He was already moving when she caught her voice and reached out to catch him in the doorway. "Hey... I mean, well, thanks."
The Executioner held up an open palm. "Five minutes."
He moved across the hall and took the next door in a rush, recoiling from the empty room without a break in stride. Three down, and now he realized that none of them were equipped with locks. The customers were paying for their privacy, but there was no way any one of them could barricade himself inside one of the rented rooms, creating sticky problems for Lucchese and his crew.
The next door on the right swung open under Bolan's hand, and one glance made him wonder if there really was a God. A young boy, with a terror-stricken face sat cowering on the bed. His puny arms were raised, body tensed and braced against the descending leather strap held by a middle-aged accountant type. The soldier ripped the man with a burst of automatic fire and left him writhing on the stained linoleum, already crossing to the youth as doors sprang open on the corridor and startled voices babbled their confusion. The cells were not quite soundproof, after all.
"Are you all right?"
It was a foolish question, but the best that he could summon in the circumstances. Shock had drained all color from the young boy's face, and now his pallor showed the welts and bruises off in stark relief. He needed medical attention, but the soldier couldn't interrupt his strike before he found Lucchese, not before he passed the message.
"Can you walk?"
"Uh-huh."
The youth recoiled as Bolan tried to lift him from the bed, then gave up, unable to resist effectively. The soldier ripped a sheet in two and wrapped half around the boy, tucking folded ends into his hands. That done, he led the kid outside and back along the corridor until he reached the bedroom occupied by one unconscious woman and one frightened teenage girl.
"It hasn't been five minutes, mister."
"No. I've got somebody for you to look after. He could use a doctor when you're clear."
"Oh, Jesus."
But she took the youth, held him to her like a mother holds her injured child, instinctively.
"I'll get him out okay."
"I know you will. Keep counting."
Now that he had lost the slim advantage of surprise, Bolan merely glanced inside the three remaining rooms, made sure that they were empty, predators and prey abandoning the ship. Downstairs, a fierce commotion had erupted as Lucchese's troops, attempting to investigate the shooting, ran headlong into a stampede of their clientele and captive slaves.
Bolan hit the stairs before the bastards could recover, lining up on the hardman who stepped out to intercept him. The guy was hauling out a pistol from beneath his arm, and a 3-round burst was all it took to shred his face, the corpse preceding Bolan in an awkward tumble down the stairs, upending stragglers and dumping all together in a tangle on the bottom landing.
He spied Lucchese in an instant, flanked by two more gunners and surrounded by perhaps a dozen customers. They were all jostling for the door in varied stages of undress. The thugs were shouting, trying desperately to separate their human merchandise from patrons, having trouble with it now that all had been reduced to their birthday suits. He saw Lucchese tangle fingers in a young girl's hair and drop her with a hard right cross. The backup gunners had their hands full with a pair of wiry youths who looked like twins, intent on breaking for the exit.
Bolan switched the mini-Uzi to his left hand and hauled out Big Thunder with his right. He let the little stutter gun unload at 700 rounds per minute, riddling the insulated walls and ceiling, showering the room with glass from overhead fluorescent fixtures. Below, Lucchese and his guns reacted as they should, releasing captives, digging for their hardware even as they sought a living target, and the moment gave Bolan all the edge that he required.
The AutoMag slid out to full extension, locking on the nearest target, bucking once and moving on. Downrange, 240 grains of death impacted on the torpedo's nose and punched on through, collapsing cheeks and chin like so much tissue paper, blowing him away.
Before the thunder had a chance to fade, round two was hurtling toward impact with the second gunner's forehead. The gunner vaulted backward and slithered out of range.
Lucchese had his .45 in hand, but Bolan wanted him alive. Round three ripped through the child molester's shoulder, separating his right arm from its socket in a sloppy bit of surgery. Staggered by the impact, Lucchese would have fallen, but Bolan couldn't let the bastard go. Another screaming .44 impacted on his kneecap, detonating bone and muscle, ripping tendons from their moorings. The guy sat down, the bloody ruin of his leg tucked underneath him.
They were alone, the tiny lobby empty now. The Executioner approached Lucchese, crouched beside him. Fear and agony were mingled in the mobster's eyes, and unaccustomed tears were etching tracks across his cheeks.
"I call the cops in fifteen minutes, Gerry. You could crawl a block by then, or maybe two, if you've got the guts."
And through the pain, a latent trace of curiosity survived.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the guy who could've blown your head off, Gerry. Maybe next time, eh? Right now, I've got a job for you to do."
"A job?"
"Tell Nicky that I want the package back. Tonight. If it's been damaged, he can kiss his life goodbye."
"The package?"
"Tell him, Gerry. Next time I might aim a little higher."
Bolan jammed the muzzle of his AutoMag against Lucchese's groin and twisted, satisfied with the impression that it made. He left the bastard there, to drag himself away as best he could, secure that Gianelli would receive his message. If Lucchese died, it wouldn't matter in the long run. Bolan's destruction of the lockbox would be instantly connected with the other strikes, and Nicky G. would get the message, loud and clear.
The soldier had another call to make before he touched base with Brognola, this time on the other side. Before he rattled any more cages, Bolan wanted to assess the "evidence" against Brognola, slip the pieces into place and look for any gaps he might exploit. And he already had a source in mind.
Let Gianelli stew for now, devouring his own insides with questions that he could not hope to answer on his own. The Executioner had other business in the seat of government, and he was moving on.
To Justice.
He meant to see if any still survived.