It took him half an hour to find a public park with a fountain that was running full force. He walked to the back of the van and looked for the cocaine. Inside two cardboard apple boxes he found two-pound packages of the white powder.
Carefully he slit open each container and dumped the powder into the fountain, watching it dissolve. Fresh water kept flowing, washing away the saturated solution.
After twenty minutes he had dissolved all of it. He shook some from one plastic wrapper and left a trail of the coke on the fountain's cement wall. Bolan used a nearby pay phone and told the police where they could find the wrappers on six million dollars' worth of coke, and the highest fountain in the world. Then he caught a taxi back to the Fairway Ford dealership and joined the crowd watching the fire. The blaze had spread to two of the buildings and enveloped half the new and used cars on the three lots.
Mack had one more call to make. The second half of the pipeline in Denver was one Oliver Smith. Smith called himself a lawyer, and had a practice of sorts, but primarily he was the drug man for Denver where there was little real Mafia organization.
Smith lived in a luxury downtown condo.
Bolan walked away from the crowd to his rented car. It was just after midnight when he got to the high rise. After waiting a few minutes, he slipped through the self-locking front door with a pair of slightly drunk residents and took the elevator to the tenth floor.
The suite was easy to find and Bolan made short work of the high-security lock.
Inside, the apartment was modern and expensive. The bedroom was on the far side of the five-room setup.
Bolan sensed someone to his left and started to reach for the Beretta when a slender, well-built brunette came toward him. She was naked.
"Hi, thought I heard someone come in. Is Oli expecting you?"
"It's a surprise. But you're a nicer surprise."
She smiled. "Thanks. Oli is in here."
Oli was also naked, lying on the bed reading. He jumped up quickly when he saw Mack.
"Who are you?"
"Boys from Chicago are not happy, Oli. Things went bad tonight. You heard about Hudson?"
"How could I miss it. It's all over the TV news."
"You're the tab on the six mill, Oli."
"No way! I never guarantee. Who the fuck are you?"
"Miss," Bolan said to the girl, "why don't you…" Bolan checked himself. He was about to say "take a powder." But he figured with all this cocaine business going down, she just might take him literally. "Why don't you fix your face or something."
She pouted, then shrugged. Her breasts danced delightfully. "If I have to."
Oli nodded quickly.
When she was gone, Bolan flipped back his jacket, took out the Beretta and checked it, then put it away.
"Oli, it's not important who I am. I need the latest upstream contact on the pipeline. The quicker you lay out the route for me, the better."
"Hell, we haven't had trouble here in two, three years. Why now?" He got off the bed and pulled on a pair of slacks. He seemed compliant. He went out to a small desk in the living room and took out a notebook and nervously leafed through it.
"The hard hop is getting the goods here to Denver. We do that by car or truck because the private planes are watched carefully at the airports around San Diego. Now it's a straight run. Lots of shit goes through to Salt Lake. It's another pipeline branch. They truck it there, and then fly it out in private jets."
"Who's the major connection in San Diego?"
"Anyone bringing stuff over the border deals with Manny "The Mover" Marcello. Or else they're in deep trouble."
"What's your delivery schedule like? Any problems?"
"I told you. No trouble for three years now. Twice a month like clockwork. The boys in Chicago always keep carping on being regular."
"Thanks, Oli. Who's the bird, yours?"
"Hell, no. Some fancy hooker. Five hundred for the night, if you can believe that."
"Looks like she's worth it."
"She's yours. I'm shot for the night, anyway."
"Such a waste."
"Who, her?"
"No, you, Oli. The Outfit wonders if you've been dealing on the side. You know they don't appreciate that."
Sweat beaded Smith's forehead and a wild look crossed his face. He had suddenly realized the big dude he'd just spilled his guts to had nothing to do with the Outfit.
Oliver Smith rushed Bolan, who was standing in front of the open sliding door of the balcony. The Executioner anticipated the wild charge and sidestepped neatly, hammering the back of Smith's head as he raced past. The impact of the blow hurled the Denver drug dealer over the balcony railing.
In the darkness the screaming, tumbling figure was soon lost from view and a few moments later Bolan heard a dull thud that cut off the chilling cry as Smith's body hit the concrete apron ten floors below.
Bolan advised the girl to get dressed as there could be some cops there before long. He stepped out of the apartment and toward the stairway exit. No one saw the big man leave by the side door.
Salt Lake City was his next stop.
22
Angela Marcello and her three conspirators had discussed their plan in great detail, examining the potential pitfalls and the benefits. They had agreed that it would work, make a lot of money, and they could do it on their own.
To research the project they spent four days in Acapulco. The hotel where they stayed was well connected with the Mafia, and the four were treated like princesses.
The cost of the rooms, cabs, food and shopping in the hotel store were all complimentary to San Diego's Don Marcello. Angela realized this meant her father owned part of the hotel or had something to do with the operation. The conspirators moved cautiously and laid out trails of stories about how hard it was to get into the U.S. legally, and how to do it any other way was dangerous.
Slowly they found sympathetic ears and made contact with a high-powered coyote, a man called Juan Morales, who needed transportation for well-paying border crashers.
The girls had figured their costs and expenses and set the price at a minimum of ten thousand dollars per person. This meant they would be catering to the wealthy who for some reason could not get legal entry, and who would pay the price for a jet trip from Acapulco to San Diego without the formality of immigration or customs.
By the end of the four days Juan Morales said he already had two customers lined up, and within a week he could have two more.
On the Aeromexico flight returning to San Diego the four members of the Hard Corps talked softly.
"It's easy," Angela said. "We can use daddy's plane for the first couple of trips at least. We may want to lease a jet after that. The critical part is the pilot."
"Your father has a pilot, I've met him," Mimi said.
"Yes, and a good one," Angela continued. "His name is Dale Ingles, and he's kind of a friend. I'll talk to Dale. Remember that he's hungry, he's in debt, he's an excellent pilot and he's good looking."
"The only problem will be crossing the border and getting that far down and back without some air controller wondering what happened to us," Gemma said. "I've taken some flying lessons, they get sticky about going across the border."
"That's why we have to do it under the radar."
"And we'll have to file a flight plan, maybe somewhere along the border," Gemma said.
They discussed other money-making ideas, even starting a fancy call-girl operation, but decided it was too risky, because so many people became involved.
They arrived at San Diego's Lindbergh Field in the afternoon and that night Angela phoned Dale Ingles. She told him she was on a hush-hush project and had to talk to him immediately. They met in the parking lot near the croquet courts in Balboa Park. As soon as she parked beside his yellow Corvette, he got into her car.
Dale was six feet tall, thirty-four, single and the athletic type. Angela thought he was gorgeous. He had soft brown hair and a good-looking face with wide-set blue eyes
and a firm chin.
"Now, princess, what's all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?"
She reached over and planted a long, hot kiss on his lips. When she pulled away, she giggled in the darkness. "Now you can't tell daddy or I'll say you tried to rape me."
"No sweat. I work for the construction company. Still, I don't want your old man mad at me."
"Good, snuggle up so if anybody sees us they'll think we're making out. We have to talk."
He put his arm around her and she did the snuggling. She outlined the plan for him, and right away he was shaking his head.
"First, you're planning too big. The jet just could not dip under radar far enough to be safe. Acapulco is too far down for good security." She frowned, then turned and kissed him again, probing with her tongue. After a while he pushed her gently away from him.
"Border crossings happen all the time," he said, "but with small planes. They fly about twenty feet off the sagebrush. The only way you can pull the same scam is to have your buddy in Acapulco fly them to Tijuana just across the border here from San Diego. Then they take a ride in a limo on a 'sight-seeing' trip along the international boundary toward Tecate. We'll pick them up on a strip of dirt road, and clip the cactus flying them back across. Land on another dirt road on the U.S. side to meet another car and they are in free and clear."
"Why is your plan better?" she asked.
"We don't risk a million-dollar plane. We have a shorter trip, and we can fly lower, slower and safer with a four-place puddle jumper. I also could get a cover by saying I was teaching you to fly."
She traced her fingers along his thigh.
"Dale, you're right, we'll make some adjustments. We can move only two persons at a time, right? We'll set up our landing sites on both sides of the border."
"Now tell me what the hell all this is about. You certainly don't need the bread."
"Daddy and all the old Mafiosi are so down on us it stinks. We want to show them that we're more than their little princesses."
"Sounds like fun."
"Great. You'll be paid well, Dale, a percentage." She smiled and kissed him again. "And there's a bonus for each trip."
She took his hand and pushed it inside her blouse. His hand fondled her bare breasts.
"This is payment in advance." She found his mouth and opened hers against his, sliding sideways in the seat and hiking up her skirt.
"Right here?" he said when their lips parted.
"You think of a better place where daddy won't know about it?"
"Cops come around."
"We don't have to undress."
"You're wild, you know that?"
"So let's get to the fun part," she said.
* * *
The next morning Angela flew to Acapulco. She made the arrangements there with Juan Morales and flew back so she was home in the big house before dark. Juan would bring the first two customers the next day. On a map she sketched the route the dirt road took on the Mexican side of the border between the California towns of Potrero and Campo.
That night in Angela's apartment in the Marcello house, the girls gathered for champagne.
Felicia lifted her glass. "To our leader, who got the first shot at Dale our pilot and scored!"
They kept toasting one another and soon they were giggling and planning other ventures. Juan would call one of them when he had two passengers. If he had more than a pair, then additional trips would be made in one day. The price was cut to five thousand dollars per person, with Juan charging the customer for his end of the transport.
As Angela thought of it, defying her father, risking prison for committing a felony, she sensed the same sharp sexual thrill pound through her that she'd felt when the trucker had been tortured.
* * *
Dale Ingles was waiting at the Brown Field airport at the southernmost part of San Diego near the border. Hartson's Flying Service had the four-seater Cessna ready. Angela had never flown in a small plane before.
They rumbled down the runway and took off into the unclouded sky.
"The car on our side of the border — is it waiting on that dirt road we found?" Dale asked.
"Yes. Felicia and I drove down here this morning. She knows exactly where it is."
He pushed a cloth-wrapped item at her where she sat beside him at the dual controls. "You wanted this."
She unwrapped the heavy package and saw the gun.
"Be careful, it's loaded. It's a Wilkinson 'Diane'.25-caliber automatic pistol. Six shots in the magazine and you can carry one in the chamber. Only has a two-inch barrel, which means don't try to hit anything over three or four feet away."
"I've never fired a gun."
"I figured that. After we send our passengers off in the car on the U.S. side, we'll do some practice shooting. It's not too heavy. It's only four inches long and weighs just three-quarters of a pound."
"Sure you're not a gun salesman?"
"Nope, but you owe me a hundred dollars for it."
"I'll pay. Where are we?"
"Crawling up the Sweetwater River above Otay Reservoir giving the radar guys an idea we're sightseeing. In a while we'll slip into a few canyons, scare some rabbits and wind up across the border, sight unseen."
"Won't the border patrol be watching?"
"They can't watch everyone. The few planes they have are used to track big spenders who hire DC-3s to pack in five tons of marijuana, or a business jet loaded with twenty million dollars' worth of coke."
"Where's the border?"
"It's down there somewhere. It's a three-strand, barbed-wire fence. Most of the fence is forty to fifty years old."
"This looks easy."
"It's easier if you don't get caught."
After a few minutes of very low flying through canyon country, they climbed slightly and then saw a black car parked on a dirt road with a man sitting on the front fender. It was the signal. The road ran straight for half a mile. The pilot checked the wind, cut his speed and prepared to land.
He brought the Cessna down in the middle of the dirt road and rolled to a stop. The black car sat fifty feet ahead of them.
Morales came running up, then waved and a man and a woman got out of the car and came toward the plane. Each carried an expensive folding suitcase. Both were dressed well. They were Arabs.
Angela held out her hand and the man handed her ten bank-wrapped bundles of hundred-dollar bills.
"Ten one-hundred dollar bills in each packet," the Arab said in a deep, cultured voice with a slight British accent.
Angela riffled through the stacks to be sure they were all hundreds.
"Do you have weapons?" she said.
"No, of course not," the woman replied.
Dale helped them stow their suitcases behind the seat and assisted them through the door.
A moment later they were all inside. Juan smiled.
"Maybe something in two or three days. I call." He turned and ran back to his car.
The pilot steered the plane into the wind and they took off. There was no conversation. They kept extremely low as they flew back over the border, then slanted inland to Highway 94 and followed it for several miles.
"To the right," Angela said. "I remember that ridge line."
Just over a small hill they found a dark blue car sitting in the shade of a tree. It was parked beside a straight dirt road with a strong but reasonably flat surface. A cross wind buffeted the plane off course for a moment, then Ingles corrected the problem with a side slip and put the wheels on the dirt road.
Felicia was up to the plane almost before it stopped rolling.
"You crazy broad! We did it!" Felicia was jumping and yelling, her shoulder-length hair flying in every direction.
"Naturally," Angela said. The transfer was made with the couple safely into the car. Felicia came back to the plane.
"Hey, what a handsome man. Arab, isn't he? They want to go to the airport in San Diego, which is fine by me. See you guys at our assembly point. Get Mimi an
d Gemma there, too."
Felicia ran for the car. She set out on the drive back to the hard-surfaced Highway 94 that led to San Diego.
Dale Ingles came around the plane with a box of shells.
"Let's see if you can fire that thing." He showed her where the safety was. She closed her eyes, pointed the automatic at a tree, held it at arm's length and pulled the trigger. It went off with a crack. She missed.
Ingles took over and gave her basic training on firearms and the use of a pistol. He made her fire three magazines. By the time they were empty, she could hit the tree trunk from twenty feet away.
Then he showed her how to load the weapon and keep the safety in the On position. He had a soft, leather holster bag with a snap top that hid the pistol but made it easy to get at in her purse.
Ingles looked at his watch.
"We ought to move out of here."
"No time to fool around in the back seat?"
"No time and no room."
"Next time I'll bring a blanket."
They had an uneventful flight back through the canyons and took a loop around the Otay Reservoir. Then they landed at Brown Field.
Angela handed the pilot two packages of bills. "Twenty percent for you and you pay for the plane rent, right? And here's a hundred for the automatic."
"Pleasure working with you," he said. They taxied back to the agency and both got out. He went to the office. She walked to her car, got in and drove away.
She sang all the way back to town. She called Mimi. The celebration was at her place.
23
Just before 11:00 a.m., Johnny picked up his extension phone at the Killinger law offices.
"Hello."
"And a good morning to you, too, Johnny Gray. This is Angela. I still owe you that dinner. How about lunch instead, right now?"
"You sound excited."
"Is it that obvious? I am feeling good, and I want to pay my debt."
"You don't owe me anything."
"Please, Johnny. We'll do what you want. How about a sail in the bay on our twenty-seven footer?"
"Sailboat? No motor?"
Resurrection Day Page 17