"It's fine," he said, moving back toward the bedroom. "Excuse me."
He went into her bedroom and closed the door. Confusion receded in Maxwell, the outrage coming back full force. She yanked the door open to see the man entering information into the sat phone.
"This is my bedroom!" This time, Maxwell straightened her back, making sure Cooper got an eyefull of her chest.
He didn't once look below her neck. "I'm aware of this room's function. This call is private. Please close the door."
Maxwell let out a noise that sounded like a pipe bursting. But she did leave the room and closed the door, which was all Bolan cared about.
* * *
He'd been up all night, making sure the truck crash was contained and dealt with. Brognola had sent a cleanup crew, and also used his contacts in the FBI to get someone from the Monroe County Field Office to take charge of the investigation, making sure that the Executioner's role was kept out of any official reports by the local cops, the Feds, or the National Transportation Safety Bureau, not to mention the company that owned the truck, who'd probably do an investigation of its own.
Complicating matters was the fact that the person in the Aveo didn't have any ID on him, and the credit card and driver's license he'd used with the rental car company belonged to a ninety-three-year-old retired plumber from Hialeah who'd died a week earlier.
Now Bolan needed a good-night's sleep before following up on the only lead he had — the "Delgado" person that Kenny V mentioned during the last phone call of his life — but first he had to contact Brognola.
Once he had been connected to the head of Stony Man, Bolan provided Brognola with the information about Ellis Auto Body.
"We'll take care of it, Striker," Brognola assured him.
"I should've just rented a car," Bolan said. "I know you said to work with this woman, but I question her professionalism."
"She knows the players, Striker. And her reputation is sterling."
"That's what I heard, too, but all the evidence I've seen doesn't even come close to supporting that reputation, Hal."
"Be that as it may, she's a valuable asset. Without her, you'll have a much harder time of it. And now that Lee knows BATF is on to him, he may circle the wagons and we'll have lost our chance to put him away. Time is of the essence here."
"Fine." Bolan had raised his objection, and Brognola had noted it. There was no point in arguing it further. "Any word on our assassin?"
"Yes, and it's not good," Brognola said. "We've ID'd him as a merc named Ward Dayton. We were only able to get a positive on him because he's in the CIA database."
"As a person of interest or a contractor?"
"The latter, unfortunately. They've used him for wet work on any number of occasions in Cuba, Nicaragua, Chile and a few times in North Africa. In fact, my guy at the Company wasn't exactly pleased that you'd killed him."
"I'm only disappointed that he got himself killed before I could find out why he was doing Kenny Valentino — though I have a pretty good guess." Bolan paused before continuing. "Why is the CIA's Central and South American go-to guy putting bullets in two-bit errand boys for gunrunners?"
"That's a good question, Striker. You need to find the answer, but my guess is that this is the first step in that wagon-circling I was just talking about."
"Valentino had a rep for shooting his mouth off, and unlike Ms. Maxwell's rep, it was one I have little trouble believing he earned, and that's based only on the ninety seconds I saw of him before he bought it. If Lee wants to close ranks, Valentino would almost definitely have been near the top of the list of potential loose ends to tie off."
"What's your next move?" Brognola asked.
"Kenny mentioned a lieutenant of Lee's named Delgado. I'm going to pay him a visit. I'll keep you posted."
3
After getting a few hours' sleep on Maxwell's living-room couch, Bolan went to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. Maxwell was nowhere to be found, which the Executioner found both annoying and a relief. The former because he wanted to ask her about Delgado.
He set the coffeemaker to provide him with a full pot. As it gurgled, he looked out the front window to see that the Mustang was gone. Bolan assumed that Maxwell had taken it to the auto body shop.
Once the coffee had stopped brewing, Bolan poured himself a cup and went back into the living room. Laying out each of his weapons on the coffee table, he carefully and meticulously cleaned each one, inside and out. He had separate cleaning kits for the SIG-Sauer, the Desert Eagle and the RRA rifle.
He cleaned the Desert Eagle first, reassembling it before moving on to the SIG-Sauer. Poor maintenance was a common cause of misfires, and the Executioner's life had been saved more than once by his opponents being too stupid to clean their weaponry properly.
He had just finished cleaning the RRA rifle when he heard a car pull into the driveway, one that didn't have the distinctive purr of the '65 Mustang. Rather it sounded like an Oldsmobile with a muffler problem.
When the noise stopped and the bungalow's door opened, Bolan saw that it was indeed an Olds, one that looked like it was brand-new when disco was born — only about ten years younger than the Mustang, but in considerably worse shape.
"Oh, good, you're up," Maxwell said. She had changed out of the T-shirt and sweats she'd had on earlier, and was now wearing a black tank top and hot pink shorts, as well as the same holster and weapon she'd had when he first arrived. Her breasts were bouncing about in the tank top in a manner that she probably hoped would be as alluring as the white T-shirt she'd worn earlier. But Bolan was just as uninterested now as he was before his nap — he had more important things to occupy his mind.
Looking at the coffee and the disassembled rifle, she added dryly, "Make yourself at home."
"Thanks," Bolan said in a like tone. He grabbed the charging handle and the bolt carrier in order to start reassembling the rifle. "What do you know about someone named Delgado who works for Lee?" he asked.
"Danny Delgado," Maxwell said without hesitating. "He's Lee's right-hand guy. Every time Lee has a meeting of any kind, Delgado stays behind after it breaks up for last-minute instructions."
Faraday, who'd just come into the room, added, "That's why everybody's got their noses right up Danny's ass."
"Where can I find him?" Bolan asked as he swung the rifle shut, the take-down pin sliding into its proper place.
Maxwell shrugged. "Don't know. I never got that close. I only met the man once or twice. What I know about him's by rep only. Johnny probably knew more. Why?"
"Last night, your pal Kenny V got himself shot in the chest by a freelance assassin who derives most of his income from the CIA."
Maxwell paled. "Kenny's dead? Jesus." She shook her head. "Kenny was your classic cockroach — figured he'd survive the goddamn apocalypse. Why'd this assassin take him out?"
"He had a close encounter with a truck on the Overseas Highway before I could ask him. That's why your Mustang was so banged up. Anyhow, when he came into Micky's, Valentino was talking to someone on the phone, and he said to tell Delgado that Lee owed him one now."
"That could be anything," Jean-Louis said. "Hot Lips was always doin' deals for people."
"Maybe." Bolan slid a full clip into place with a satisfying click as he spoke. "But the favor he owed might've been giving up Agent McAvoy, which means Delgado's my next target."
"Fine," Maxwell said, "let me make a phone call."
"To who?" Bolan asked.
"Delgado served with Lee, but he didn't come out of it so good. He stepped on a land mine. He walks with a cane, but his groin didn't do as well as his legs."
"He's impotent?"
Maxwell nodded. "But he still likes to watch, so he spends most of his time at strip clubs. Thing is, he binges — he'll go to one joint every night for two months, then never go in there again, instead moving onto the next one."
"So your phone call will be to someone who knows the location of the curren
t strip club of choice." Bolan deduced.
Lola nodded.
Reaching into the pocket of her shorts, she pulled out a cell phone and entered a number.
"Hey, Vin, it's Lola," she said when the connection was made.
Maxwell had placed a call to Detective Vincenzo Monferato of the Monroe County Sheriffs Office. "Hiya, Lo! How's it hangin'?"
"Not bad. How's Betty?"
"Bitching about the humidity, like usual. She wanted to move to Florida to get away from winter, but she didn't say nothin' about humidity. If she wanted to lose humidity, we shoulda gone to Arizona."
"If you moved to Arizona, she'd complain about the heat. It's her nature."
"Yeah." Monferato sighed. "Anyhow, what're you lookin' for?"
Maxwell pouted. "Now what makes you think I'm looking for something? Maybe I just wanted to say hi."
"Yeah, right. C'mon, Lo, you don't ever call me 'less you want somethin', so spill. Whaddaya need?"
"Just wondering where Danny Delgado gets his rocks off these days."
"Y'know that new joint that opened up where the Hooters used to be?"
"Yeah, Vin, I know all the strip clubs in the Keys," she said sardonically. She knew Hooters had closed — Key West was probably the only location where a Hooters had proved unpopular — but she hadn't noticed what had replaced it.
Monferato laughed. "Yeah, okay. The place is called Hot Keys. They even used the same lettering as the Hooters did. Stupid, right?"
"So that's where Delgado's keeping the nonexistent family jewels?"
"Yup. Every night right at ten, he goes in with two of Lee's goons, orders a tequila and ogles the chicks. Except on Sunday. That's when he stays home and watches whatever's on HBO."
"Okay thanks, Vin. That's another one I owe you."
"I ain't keepin' score, Lo. Take it easy."
Maxwell disconnected the call and looked over at Bolan, who had finished assembling his weaponry. "He's at a place called Hot Keys — or, at least, he will be later. It's on Duval."
"Good. Thanks. I'll head there tonight — alone."
Maxwell put her hands on her hips. "You can't go alone. Look, we're supposed to be working together on this."
"We are. You provided the intel I needed, and now I'm going to put it to good use," he said.
"You won't get anywhere near Delgado. He's got guys to protect him from strangers who try to sidle up to him. I can get you close."
"How? You just told me you didn't know him."
"Yeah, but he knows me. I've got a rep around here, plus he knows Johnny and me were a couple."
Bolan raised an eyebrow. "The same Johnny who they just shot as a BATF agent?"
Frowning, Maxwell said, "That's how I was gonna approach him — tell him I didn't know anything about..."
"Most likely the guys you just mentioned will take you outside and shoot you in the back of the head. You're ex-law-enforcement, and you were sleeping with a BATF agent. You're marked by these people. So your best bet is to stay home where it's safe." Bolan almost added, "And out of my way."
Maxwell looked as if she hadn't thought that through. The Executioner figured she was blinded by her desire for revenge. Yet another reason to keep her at arm's length — let her provide intel, but keep her out of the active mission. She was a liability, one Bolan couldn't afford.
That led to another thought. "Do these guys know you live here?" Bolan asked.
To the Executioner's relief, Maxwell shook her head. "They thought I lived with Johnny."
"Still, it's a small island. Keep an eye out."
Maxwell smiled at that. "I always do."
4
Danny Delgado hated the desert.
He had been born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and he couldn't get out of there fast enough. His father was a cop, and he'd wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, but the last thing Danny wanted was to spend his life humping a radio car — as his father called it — for thirty years in this arid hellhole.
So he joined the Marines, figured they'd send him somewhere better.
It was fine, at first. He was stationed in Germany, which had real weather, not just the seventh circle of hell.
Then two airplanes crashed into the World Trade Center, another crashed into the Pentagon, and a third crash-landed in Pennsylvania, and suddenly the U.S. was at war. Delgado's unit was transferred to Afghanistan.
More of the goddamn desert.
To add insult to injury, whichever brain-dead soldier wrote up the map of the land mines for the Army got it wrong. Delgado had stepped to the left to avoid what the Army map said was a mine, but in actuality the mine was right where Delgado stepped.
Thank Christ for modern medicine, was all Delgado could say. The medics got his ass to a field hospital in record time, and the docs were able to patch him up enough that he could walk and take a piss.
But he couldn't get it up, even with a truckload of Viagra.
Goddamn desert.
The lieutenant who ran his unit was as straight a straight arrow as you could find, so when Lieutenant Lee visited Delgado in the hospital, he was stunned. "My tour's up," the lieutenant said, "and I got a business deal set up down in Florida. I could use your help."
Delgado was in. His disability pay from the Corps wouldn't be enough to live on, so he needed work, and one thing he knew was guns. He was a rifleman in the Corps, and thanks to growing up with a father who made sure his son knew how to use firearms properly, he'd had the best range scores at his father's gun club for several years running.
It had been great. He and Lee had made a shitload of cash, and best of all, they were in Florida. The tropics beat the crap out of the desert.
And the Florida Keys were filled with strip joints. Even before the land mine, Delgado had never had a relationship that lasted more than a month or two. He got bored too easily. Similarly, after a couple months, each strip joint got dull, as he got tired of seeing the same girls over and over, so he'd move on.
Eventually, of course, he ran out of places, but by then, the first place had had enough turnover in the girls that it was like a new place.
Hot Keys was an especially entertaining venue, because Lee owned a piece of it, so Delgado was given the full VIP treatment. The club had two public stages, one up front near the long mahogany bar, and another in back surrounded by small tables. Behind that backstage was a doorway covered by a velvet curtain. Go straight through the curtain, and you wind up in a circular room with a couch running all along the wall. For twenty bucks, you got one of the girls to come back there with you, and you could sit on the couch and she'd take off all her clothes and dance for you. You could even touch her legs and arms, but nowhere else.
If you turned right at the curtain, though, there was a staircase to the VIP room, where you would get true privacy. What you got depended on how much you paid. It started at one hundred dollars, where you got the same dance as downstairs, but it went on longer, and you also got a bottle of champagne. More money got you more entertainment.
And if you were the right-hand man of the guy who owned forty percent of the business, you got whatever you wanted for free. Intercourse wasn't an option, of course, but Delgado was a connoisseur of oral sex, and he loved to give it. And his own impotence meant that the girls generally didn't complain, since they weren't at risk for pregnancy or disease.
Besides which, Delgado was an excellent tipper.
This night, he'd arrived at the club at his usual hour of ten o'clock, carrying the portfolio that contained whatever he might need for the day, and accompanied by Minaya and Daley. Delgado tried to avoid the usual douche-bag behavior of some guys in these places, and so he always took his girls upstairs. The presence of those douche-bags was why he tended to bring Minaya and Daley along. Sometimes people got in his face. Thanks to those two, they never did so twice.
Delgado always stationed himself at the table closest to the velvet curtain, as it made the trip to the VIP room quick and easy, plu
s it proved a good view of the dancers and those patrons busy getting a private dance. But someone was sitting at his table.
As Delgado and the bodyguards entered, one of the bouncers — a large Bahamian guy whose name Delgado couldn't remember — went to talk to the man, who was a well-built older guy with short dark hair.
"Excuse me, sir," the Bahamian said in an accented voice, "but this is the gentleman I told you about. This table is his."
"Yeah?" The guy looked up at Delgado. He seemed pissed at first, and Delgado was about to tell Minaya and Daley to do their thing, but then the guy smiled. "Sure, I'll get up. Always willing to help out a fellow jarhead."
Delgado frowned. "You're in the Corps?"
"Was. Went over the first time we went to the Gulf." Holding out a hand, the guy said, "Name's Mike Burns — used to be a rifleman."
"Really?" Delgado returned the handshake. "Me, too. Went after the Taliban till I stepped on a land mine."
The man winced. "Damn. That's gotta suck." He got up. "Well, here's your table."
Delgado held up a hand. "Nah, sit a spell, Mike — I can call you Mike?"
"Sure. And I can call you?"
"Danny — Danny Delgado. Let me refill that beer for you — 'less you want somethin' stronger?"
"I could go for a tequila. Straight up — none of that salt crap."
Delgado grinned. "A man of taste. James?"
Minaya nodded, and went over to the bar to order two tequilas. Delgado sat down next to the ex-marine, placing his portfolio under his chair. Both men were seated with their backs to the wall so they could see the stage.
Delgado knew, of course, that it was perfectly possible that this was a con job of some kind, or that this was some random asshole, or another cop like that McAvoy prick, but if there was a problem, he had Minaya and Daley to deal with it. And if there wasn't a problem, and this Burns guy was who he said he was, Delgado was looking forward to spending time with a fellow traveler. You really couldn't talk about the Corps with anyone buta fellow Marine, and the lieutenant — Lee — never wanted to talk about the old days.
Deep Recon Page 4