"The volume is no problem now," Vachon was saying, punctuating every sentence with his hand. "I have my sources on the inside, at the factory."
"All right," the Georgian drawled. "And when can I expect delivery?"
They reached the tiny office, and Vachon was fumbling with his keys. They passed inside, their voices muffled now by distance and the intervening glass. The dealer opened a filing cabinet, withdrew a thin manila folder, spread the contents on his desk for Axelrod's inspection. Toby watched them from the sidelines and several moments passed before they started nodding in agreement. Finally they sealed the deal by shaking hands. Their business done, they locked the office and hastily retraced their steps.
"I guarantee you will be satisfied," Vachon was telling Axelrod.
"Well, you've never disappointed me before," the Dixie führer said. "I'm counting on you, Paul."
A first name. Bolan's grin was hard and hungry, etched into his face. With any luck he could pursue the dealer to his lair with what he had right now, but there might be a simpler way.
He waited for the footsteps and the voices to recede before he scrambled down, alighting on the forklift nearest to the aisle. As he touched down, the bright fluorescents were extinguished overhead, the single row of night-lights glowing dim and ghostly in the corrugated metal barn.
He listened for the closing of the door, a whispered click, before he made his move. If he could clear the warehouse, reach his rental car before Vachon and his companions disappeared, it would be simple to pursue the death merchant to his base of operations. Along the way there would be time to think of Toby Ranger and her role in the unfolding drama. Was she working on the arms connection? Simply keeping tabs on Axelrod? Or was there something deeper? The soldier didn't plan to blow her cover, knowing it could mean her life, but hoped he'd have a chance to speak with Toby.
He had to relocate her first, and that meant tracking down Vachon. The dealer, after all, had been his reason for arriving in Toronto in the first place. Other business could afford to wait.
Mack Bolan had a score to settle with the Raven, and with the vultures who had made his terrorism possible. If Paul Vachon was one of those, his days were numbered.
But Bolan needed something more substantial than the dying words of Tommy Noonan. He needed evidence, and he would find it waiting for him at the home of Paul Vachon — or there would be no evidence to find.
If he hadn't lost his edge already, he was going home with Paul Vachon.
In search of evidence.
In search of targets.
Chapter Seventeen
It was a relatively easy tail. Paul Vachon was a believer in conspicuous consumption, and a blind man could have tracked his silver Mercedes without much difficulty. The hour had reduced Toronto's traffic to a scattering of cars along the routes they chose, and Bolan's hardest task was hanging back, cutting off his lights from time to time on lonely stretches when there were no other vehicles in sight.
The Gardiner Expressway took them east until they caught the Don Valley Parkway northbound. The luxury German import was fat and shiny underneath the streetlights, and impossible to lose. Bolan took the opportunity to scan Toronto's skyline, running slow and mellow in the limo's wake. And he was with them when they caught the off ramp onto the Macdonald-Cartier Freeway, running into Scarborough, angling eastward in the final leg of the pursuit.
Vachon's estate was situated just off Ellesmere Road, by the greenery of Morningside Park. The walls were roughly six feet high and built of stone, but they had not been topped with concertina wire as far as Bolan could tell. He drove by the wrought-iron gates, and saw his quarry's taillights winking insolently on the curving drive.
The penetration was imperative — and fraught with danger, for himself as well as Toby. She was not expecting visitors, and he could not predict her gut reaction if they came together by surprise, with Axelrod or Paul Vachon at hand.
He found a stand of trees where he could stash the rental. Pulling in, he killed the lights and engine and prepared for EVA.
No simple probe this time. His drive by had revealed the grounds lit up like daylight, with the manor house a beehive of activity. The warrior knew he could approach by stealth, but he was almost certain to encounter sentries here, and that would lead to killing long before he reached his destination. He would need another angle of approach to pull it off, and Bolan had a plan in mind.
He stood beside the car in darkness, shed the harness with its military webbing, stowed it in the trunk. Next off, the rigging for his black, selective-fire Beretta and its extra magazines. He peeled the blacksuit off and stood there in his Jockeys, night wind playing on his body, while he scrubbed the camouflage cosmetics from his face with tissues and a jar of cream.
That done, he dressed himself again in crisp white shirt and tie, a charcoal business suit and loafers. They would take a beating on the wall, but he could minimize the damage with a bit of care, and darkness was his friend. If anybody looked too closely, there was still the sleek Beretta nestled inside the jacket of his suit.
He locked the trunk and double-checked the rental's doors, then hiked the hundred yards back to Vachon's perimeter. The six-foot wall was bare on top, and Bolan found no sign of sensors, cameras, no security devices whatsoever. That was careless, but if Bolan's target felt secure inside his walls without the other gadgetry, so much the better. Sentries, with perhaps a dog or two, would be the only obstacles before him now.
The wall was easy. It had been constructed more for looks than any real security. He wondered if the weapons trade in Canada was really so pacific, or if Paul Vachon was merely a peculiar, sloppy aberration. Either way, the soldier thanked his lucky stars once he was safe inside the stone perimeter.
He met the sentry moments later, pacing off his circuit with a walkie-talkie dangling from one wrist, a Steyr automatic rifle — one of the futuristic AUGs tucked underneath his other arm. At sight of Bolan in his suit and tie, the picket did a double-take and swung the rifle up. His fingers wrapped around the walkie-talkie, lifting it in the direction of his face. His voice betrayed surprise, and something very much like fear.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
A touch of French around the vowels. That made the kid Vachon's, and Bolan offered up his best Southern U.S. accent in return.
"Jus' take it easy, boy. I'm in with Gerry Axelrod. Security, ya know?"
"I wasn't told," the kid replied, defensive now.
"No reason why you shoulda been." A plastic smile. "Hell, I ain't checkin' up on you. Jus' thought I'd take myself a little look-see round the place, if tha's all right."
The sentry's eyes were narrowed with suspicion, and he held the AUG rock steady, with the muzzle square on Bolan's chest. He couldn't hope to drop the kid without a heavy-duty risk, and even if he killed him clean, there was a chance the sentry's dying reflex would be adequate to chop him down.
"I wasn't told," the picket said again.
And it was time to push his luck a little.
"Well, shit fire, why doan you buzz the house and get it squared away?" The tension in his voice came out as Bolan had intended, sounding like impatience. "Tell you somethin', I'm not used to the quee-zeen y'all are dishin' up around this place. It goes right through me, if you get my drif', an' I doan have a lotta time to stan' around an' chat right now."
The sentry thought about it for a moment, finally smiled and dropped the muzzle of his AUG.
"Good luck," he said.
"I'll need it, way I feel right now." He brushed on past the guard, moving toward the house.
He left the sentry, moving briskly now as if he owned the place. Role camouflage and Paul Vachon's own carelessness had seen him through this time, and Bolan felt secure that he could handle any further challenge. When he passed the second sentry, he only had to wave and nod distractedly to put the man at ease. Long hours and unfamiliarity with new arrivals did the rest.
Bolan hesitated to approach the hous
e, aware that once inside, his options would be strictly limited. A fumble on the inside and he would be as good as dead. And yet he had not come this far and risked this much to walk around the house, a stranger on the outside looking in.
A sudden burst of laughter from the rear, and Bolan thought he recognized the voice of Paul Vachon.
He ambled in the direction of the sound, half circling the manor house before he came upon a wide veranda, fitted out with hot tub, redwood dining tables and a deep-pit barbecue. Vachon knew how to entertain in style, and he was holding forth for Gerry Axelrod as Bolan cleared the corner of the house. Across from Axelrod the lady fed looked bored behind a practiced smile.
She spotted Bolan instantly, and he could feel the short hairs rising on his neck as she leaned forward, whispering to Axelrod. The would-be fiihrer nodded silently, still listening to Paul Vachon as Toby rose, excused herself and moved with agile, dancer's strides across the patio.
Mack Bolan tracked her toward the sliding doors that he surmised would open onto a dining room or kitchen, lost her as she passed inside. She had made him and decided to retreat from the line of fire. Bolan cursed beneath his breath. He was running out of time, and ran the risk of being challenged at any moment.
Too late.
A screen door banged behind him, and he was already turning, loosening the buttons on his jacket, reaching for the Beretta and a bullshit story simultaneously when he recognized the husky voice.
"What are you doing here?"
The lady was as beautiful as he remembered, but she was not amused.
"I've got some business with Vachon," he told her simply, skipping over the preliminaries by a sort of mutual consent.
"First come, first served," she told him flatly.
"Different orders," Bolan countered. "I can't see why yours and mine should intersect."
"I've heard that song before."
Was there a trace of bitterness beneath the shock and natural resentment of intrusion on her own preserve? "I guess you ought to know the tune by now."
"No sale. I've been with Axelrod for seven months. That's way too long and way too much for me to flick it in for Captain Midnight."
He risked a smile. "What happened to that smiling face..."
"You used to know and love?" she finished for him. And the tone was definitely bitter. "Don't make me laugh."
He saw the color rising in her cheeks and recognized the cutting edge behind her words. There was a great deal more on Toby's mind than jealousy concerning jurisdiction, but he didn't have the time to psychoanalyze.
"I don't have time for cat and mouse," he told her flatly, wiping off the smile. "I need to pick the dealer's brain."
"My mission has priority," she snapped. "We're dealing with a pack of home-grown terrorists, in case you haven't heard."
"No conflict there. I tag Vachon, your mark goes begging for his hardware."
"And he finds it somewhere else, next week, next month. No good. This deal is in the works, and I will not stand by and see it blown."
"So, step aside."
"I'm warning you..."
Her voice and all the pent-up anger trailed away at once, as if someone had pulled the plug and let it all run down. When Toby spoke again, her voice was softer, barely pitched above a whisper.
"Please. I need some time."
"How much?"
"They're handing off at noon tomorrow... if nothing queers the deal."
Eleven hours, give or take. And it could be a heartbeat or a lifetime, depending on your point of view.
"All right."
The lady looked suspicious, frowning now, as if she half expected him to wink and call out, "April fool!"
"You promise?"
"If I have to."
"Well... you'd better not let anybody find you here. They play for keeps."
"I didn't know you cared."
Her anger flared at once, as if his voice had tripped a personal ignition switch. "God damn you." And the voice was teary now. "God damn you all to hell!"
She spun away and disappeared inside the house, the screen door banging shut behind her. Bolan watched her go, uncertain what was eating at the lady. But he could hear the numbers running in his head, and knew that he had used his time — and then some.
It was time to go, before he overstayed his welcome and became a permanent addition to the scenery.
Reluctantly, he put the house behind him, knowing he would have to do it all a second time when Toby and her mark were safely off the premises. At least he knew the general layout of the house and grounds. Next time around, without the Georgia delegation to distract him, he would have a chance to speak with Paul Vachon at length. A lifetime for the dealer, unless he had the information Bolan needed for his Raven hunt.
Bolan retraced his path across the grounds, in the direction of the wall. He reached his point of entry, was about to scramble topside when a whispered, continental voice reached out to trace an icy finger down his spine.
"I thought you might be back."
He knew the voice and recognized the sentry long before he turned around to face him, concentrating on the AUG he held in both hands now. Less chance of missing, with his free hand wrapped around the folding pistol grip in front. The recoil, moderated by design, would not be adequate to throw the piece off target at point-blank range.
"Take the holster off."
Bolan shrugged the leather harness off his shoulders and worked his left arm free, allowing it to dangle momentarily from the right. His captor was right-handed, too; a left-hand sweep would drag the AUG across his body, keeping him within the range of fire for just the extra heartbeat that the kid would need to loose a fatal burst. But on the other hand...
The other hand was moving swiftly, unexpectedly, before the plan was fully formed in Bolan's mind. He made no move to draw the pistol from its holster, knowing he could never hope to beat the kid's reaction time. Instead, he whipped the shoulder rig around in front of him, a kind of flail that caught the muzzle of his opposition's rifle, slamming it away for just a second.
And then he sprang, a reflex that propelled him forward, even as he let the harness go and saw it wrap around the barrel of the AUG, its extra weight retarding the reaction of his enemy. His left hand found the gunner's wrist and yanked it forward, countering the sentry's own reflexive trigger pull, and he was twisting, bearing down as they collided, levering the rifle from his adversary's grasp.
A knee exploded in the sentry's groin, and he was folding, going down with Bolan's weight on top of him, before he had a chance to shout a warning toward the house. A muscled forearm found his larynx, crushed it as they both made impact with the earth, and Bolan lay atop the kid until his final tremors faded.
The Executioner straightened, found the shoulder harness, slipped it on. The corpse would have to travel with him, of course. He simply had no choice. A missing sentry might be AWOL, but a stiff would tell Vachon that he was being stalked, and Bolan couldn't give that much away. Not yet.
For Toby's sake.
And for his own.
In death, the sentry seemed to weigh a ton, although he was a slender youth in fact. He sagged against the Executioner as Bolan eased him up across the wall and pushed him over into darkness on the other side. He tossed the AUG across, took one more look around for any telltale signs of struggle and was gone.
The rental's trunk would hold his trophy for a while, until he found someplace to dump it safely. He didn't want the body found until he had his little chat with Paul Vachon.
A single trip would do it, with the sentry draped across his shoulder in a fireman's carry, shirttails wrapped around his face in case his bloody spittle leaked to ruin Bolan's suit. The AUG was weightless by comparison.
The trunk would hold them nicely. For now. And while he looked for someplace to discard his kill, the Executioner would puzzle over Toby Ranger's hostile attitude, her angry words. The lady fed was keeping something to herself, and it was eating at he
r. If there was time and opportunity, he meant to find out what that something was.
If not, well, the mission took priority. And he had come in search of information from Vachon, not soothing words from one of Hal Brognola's SOGs.
The Raven hunt was numbers one through ten on Bolan's list right now, and he was in no mood to juggle the priorities.
Not yet.
And not without a damned good reason.
Chapter Eighteen
Toby Ranger turned on the shower, adjusted it for heat and shed her robe to step beneath the stinging spray. She stood with her face upturned, eyes closed, and let the water pummel her, anticipating the relief from pent-up tension she had felt since meeting Bolan on the lawn outside.
Toby slowly turned beneath the shower head to let the steaming spray beat against her shoulders and her spine. Her eyes were open now but out of focus, staring through the shower's mist and seeing Bolan's face in front of her, as if the man had never left.
Goddamn him, anyhow!
He had no right to show up here and jeopardize the mission that she had pursued for eight long months. There were no mafiosi here for him to hunt, but Toby felt a worm of dread insinuate itself into her brain, reminding her that Bolan might appear most anywhere, at anytime. His targets were not limited to capos and their button men. It could be Axelrod — or someone else.
Either way, Bolan's presence in Toronto spelled disaster for her mission.
Unless he let her play her hand without unnecessary interference.
Fat chance.
The man was hell on wheels, and when he focused on a target, no mere words could put him off the track. She knew the Executioner that well, and Toby cherished no illusions that their little heart-to-heart outside had changed his mind. If his mark was inside Vachon's estate, the soldier would be back, and he would choose the time.
Her tension was returning, muscles knotting in her shoulders, and Toby willed herself to relax. He had the same effect on her each time they met, mingled feelings of concern and irritation welling up inside until she felt that she was going to explode.
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