John Cutter - The Specialist 07: The Vendetta (Specialist, #7)

The Vendetta

Book Seven in The Specialist series

John Cutter

John Cutter 1985

John Cutter has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 1985 by Signet

This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

Table of Contents

1. Sullivan Works up an Appetite

The vendetta began on a cold, crisp morning in early November, beside a phone booth, in the deserted parking lot of a tavern about twenty miles north of New York City.

I dont think you want to make that phone call, Sullivan, the man with the cigarette holder said. It was an expensive ebony cigarette holder, four inches long and very elegant. And it was empty. The man held it in stumpy yellow teeth; the teeth were set in a pocked, toadlike face. The guy had forgotten to shave that morning, too.

The cigarette holder is out of place in a face like yours, Sullivan said, hanging up the pay phone. And you guys are completely out of place here. You just dont belong anywhere near me. He said it in a flat, confident, faintly amused voice. His tone remained unchanged when he added, But if you get the fuck out of here right now, you can go on living.

There were four of them, standing in a semicircle around Sullivan. Two of them the two youngest, a couple of classic Italian bucks who wore nearly identical cheap polyester clothing and costly, gaudy gold chains looked at each other and snickered in amazement. The other two looked at one another. One had shoulder-length brown hair, and a harelip; the other was Cigarette Holder, Harelip and Cigarette Holder knew who Sullivan was.

Very slowly, careful not to make sudden moves, Cigarette Holder unbuttoned his wrinkled sports jacket, holding the coat open so Sullivan could see his .45 in its shoulder holster under his left arm.

We dont see no reason this should get unpleasant, he said.

It got unpleasant when you showed up here, Sullivan said, taking a cigarette from a pack of Luckies in his shirt pocket.

Harelip lit it for him. Part of the necessary diplomacy.

The two Trainees, as Sullivan thought of them, looked at one another uneasily now, sensing that something was going on here they didnt understand. Maybe this guy Sullivan was more than just another punk.

Sullivan, come to think of it, didnt look like just another punk.

He was at least six-four, maybe two-forty pounds; his physique was brawny, rock-hard, and trained. His short hair was streaked with white at the temples, the eyes under his shaggy brows were gunmetal, and looking into them you could swear you were looking into two gun muzzles. There was a knife scar bisecting the left eyebrow and a long blue scar on the right cheek that had probably been gouged by a bullet. And there was a dime-size piece missing from his left ear. Like a .38 slug would make.

But what made the Trainees nervous, looking at the guy, was his calm. Sullivan was all alone here, facing four guys who could drill him at least six times apiece, and he seemed completely unconcerned.

And that was crazy.

And crazy people are scary.

Why dont you guys want me calling my girlfriend? Jealous? Want me for yourself? Sullivan didnt care right now if he stirred them up a bit.

We know she aint your girlfriend, Cigarette Holder said. We tapped her line. We know the arrangement. You call from this booth to get final directions when she finds out just where shell be holed up. You were about to call the Springer girl. She wants to hire you to hit Toscani. Blames her fathers suicide and the death of her kid brother on Toscani. Thats the thing, you know? Everybody gotta blame somebody. Shes feeding you a load of horse-shit. Toscani respects you. Would like you should work for us. We came to give you a choice.

Go on, Sullivan said. Dig it deeper. What choice?

Take the job for Springer, we got to waste you. Back off now, and you can work for us. Holder shrugged.

Sullivan looked over the situation, and found it ironic.

He hadnt made up his mind to take the Springer job hed been on his way to meet with Janet Springer for a consultation, no guarantees. But the arrival of the four thugs had pretty much made up his mind for him.

Now he was going to take the job for sure.

Sullivan was a talented man. One of his talents was the innate ability to know when another man was lying. And Cigarette Holder was lying for sure. Which meant that Janet Springer had been telling the truth. And anyway, her story fit the pattern, when it came to stories about Toscani

George Springer, Janets father, had been a marginally successful real-estate broker whod inherited his brothers garage and body shop when his brother died in a car accident. Turned out his brother had been involved in repainting stolen cars. Part of a mob franchise run by Toscani. George Springer had refused to continue the felonious sideline, and had also refused to sell out to Toscani.

But Toscani wouldnt take no for an answer. Hed hounded Springer, and used his clout to see to it that his brokers license was revoked. Springer went bankrupt, and finally sold out to Toscani. And then, ashamed of buckling under, killed himself. In full view of his daughter, who had the bad luck to walk in at the moment her father was pulling the shotguns trigger.

Janets kid brother Elton, just nineteen years old, on leave from the Marines, had gone to get satisfaction from Toscani. His body was found in the river. Hed been beaten to pulp, and then shot five times.

Yes, Sullivan knew he would take the job. He didnt take a job for money alone. He just wasnt put together that way. He was a Specialist in taking vengeance. And it had to be righteous vengeance. Vengeance deeply deserved.

Well, what do you say, Sullivan? Holder asked.

Sullivan shrugged, and leaned just a little to the left, as if he were shifting his weight for the sake of comfort. That put Cigarette Holders left side between Sullivan and Harelips right side. And Sullivan had observed Harelip to be left-handed, and had also noticed the bulge in the left-hand pocket of Harelips coat. He kept his pistol loose there. Probably a snubnose .38.

Sullivan smiled and shrugged again and said, Okay. The hell with it. And stuck out his right hand as if for a handshake.

Cigarette Holder relaxed a notch and reached out to shake Sullivans hand.

But it was Sullivans left hand that took the thugs right by the wrist. He clasped it in an iron grip, holding it fast, as his right hand snaked into Cigarette Holders jacket, gripped the butt of the .45, and tilted it up without taking it from its holster to point at Harelips heart. His thumb flicked off the safety a microsecond before his finger squeezed the trigger. Harelip had his .38 out, but his partner was in the way.

The .45 round cut through Holders coat and took Harelip neatly through the heart. He staggered back, the .38 going off spasmodically in his hand, the slug ripping into Cigarette Holders back, hot blood running under the jacket to splash stickily on Sullivans gun hand. Sullivan turned the wounded man like a gun turret and fired twice more from beneath Cigarette Holders armpit, through the fabric of his jacket the gun still in its holster and the Trainees went down, their weapons discharging harmlessly into the air.

The man in Sullivans arms groaned, and sagged. The holder fell from his mouth. The color went from his face. The life went from his eyes. Sullivan let the twitching corpse drop.

He stepped over the carnage to the phone booth, dropped in a quarter, and dialed a number. A woman answered, her voice strong but sad.

This is Sullivan. Im at the tavern. How about those directions?

She gave him the information and said, I was just about to have breakfast. I make a mean omelet. Have you eaten?