Then the door flew open to reveal Cooper, his SIG-Sauer drawn and leading the way.
Jiminez whirled her, wrapping his entire left arm around Maxwell and using her as a human shield. "The hell're you?" the man asked, and Maxwell felt his massive arm press against her throat, crushing her windpipe and straining her hyoid bone. Of all the ways she expected to die, being strangled by a gut-shot thug in her own bedroom while only wearing an open flannel shirt and Cooper watching was definitely in the bottom ten of what she had been hoping for.
Rather than answer the Cuban's question, Bolan said, "You're not getting out of here alive."
"That's where you're wrong, pendejo. See, me and the lady, we're leavin' right now. She's my health insurance. I get to the hospital and get stitched up, and she don't die."
"Not gonna happen."
"You think you can stop me without killing the bitch?"
"First of all, you came in here with the intent to kill the bitch," Bolan said dryly, "so any promise you make to keep her alive is pretty hollow. Secondly, if you do kill her, you lose the leverage she provides. Not that that's much because, thirdly? I really don't care if she lives or dies."
Maxwell tensed, which just made Jiminez's arm on her neck more painful. It was getting progressively harder to breathe. She knew that Cooper wasn't thrilled with her presence, but to just cast her life away like that? What the hell kind of monster was he?
She felt Jiminez's hot, beer-soaked breath on her ear as he spoke. "So I guess we got us an underpass."
"Impasse is the word you mean," Bolan said, "and no, we don't. One of three things is going to happen. You're either going to eventually lose enough blood that you drop her, and then I shoot you between the eyes. Or you'll try to shoot me with her Beretta, which will probably miss, and then I'll shoot you both."
Jiminez looked down at Maxwell's arm, apparently only just now realizing that he could use her weapon. Then again, he hadn't come with a firearm of any kind, probably to avoid making any noise that would awaken the neighbors. Her shot to his belly killed that notion, but Jiminez's feeble mind never made the jump from that to being able to use her Beretta.
Maxwell couldn't help but think that Lee really needed a better class of thug. She was getting tired of not being able to breathe. Spots were forming in front of her eyes, and she would not let this asshole win.
"What's the third thing?" Jiminez then asked Bolan.
But it was Maxwell who answered as she kicked upward and behind her, catching Jiminez right in the balls. "This."
"Jesus!" Jiminez cried, doubling over and loosening his grip on her neck. As soon as his arm went slack, Maxwell twirled away from him, red flannel flaring outward as she brought up her weapon.
But before she finished turning, Bolan had pulled the trigger of his SIG-Sauer, the 9 mm round drilling through the Cuban's forehead, skull and brain matter. Said brain matter splattered all over Lola's carpeted floor and bedspread, along with a considerable amount of blood.
"Nice kick," Bolan said, putting the safety on his SIG-Sauer and holstering it in the waistband of his pants.
Suddenly self-conscious, Maxwell pulled her flannel shirt over as much of her body as it would cover, an action rendered difficult by the Beretta still in her right hand. "Thank you." She shook her head. "How the hell did he get past the alarm?"
"Easy — I disabled it."
She stared at Bolan. "What? Why?"
"To see if this would happen. I had a feeling that you were compromised, but I knew you wouldn't believe me if I said you were, so I disabled the alarm to let anyone who would attack get in without getting the local cops involved. The less official paperwork, the better."
"He could've killed me!"
Bolan fixed her with an annoyed look. "Of course he wouldn't have. You were handling him just fine — I didn't intervene until you were in danger."
Maxwell blinked twice. "So — so you were watching the whole time?" She pulled the flannel shirt closer.
Bolan moved toward the door. "Get dressed and pack a bag. We're leaving."
The objection Maxwell was about to raise to that died on her lips. She quickly realized that Jiminez couldn't have been the only one who knew. Hell, he couldn't find his big ass with both hands. No, he only went where Lee told him, which meant that Lee also knew where she lived.
As she went to her dresser, she called out to the Executioner, who had gone back into the living room. "What about Jiminez's body?"
"Leave it. With the alarm off, no break-in was reported, and I assume your neighbors won't think twice if you're gone for several days, yes?"
"Yeah," Maxwell said.
"So the only people who would come in to find the body," Bolan continued, "are Lee's people, and we want them to find the body. When an operation like Lee's hits a snag, the first thing they do is tie off the loose ends. When a loose end refuses to be tied, like you just were, it causes panic, which makes it more likely that they'll make a mistake."
Having buttoned her shirt, she climbed into a pair of cargo pants — she had a feeling she was going to need the extra pockets.
Reentering the bedroom carrying his satchel, Bolan said, "Ready?"
"Give me a minute. Where are we going?"
"We'll find out when we're on the road. We're taking Faraday's junk heap — but he can't know where we are."
Maxwell's eyes went wide. "Jean-Louis! He might be a target, too!"
Bolan had been afraid of this. "We can't..."
She checked her watch. The Cutter's Wharf closed at two, and it was now half past, so he'd be home by now. "Our first stop is Jean-Louis's place. We're not leaving him to die."
The Executioner considered arguing the point, then gave in. Faraday had done his time, and now was working for the good guys, in his own way, and Bolan couldn't let him die if it could be avoided.
Besides, two untied loose ends were better than one.
"Fine, we'll head there, first."
"I'll drive," Maxwell said, heading to the bathroom to pack some toiletries.
6
This was far more than Erica Mayes had bargained for.
Danny Delgado had indeed taken her up to the VIP room, but what he wanted her to do was way beyond what she'd ever been asked to do, or expected to be asked to do.
They entered the VIP room, Delgado's two bodyguards standing on either side of the door outside. At Delgado's request, the satellite radio in the room had been set on a light-music channel, and the dulcet tones of some Billy Joel song or other wafted over the speakers, but rather than blare it, as was done downstairs, the music was kept low enough to allow a conversation that didn't need to be shouted at the top of one's lungs.
As with downstairs, there was a table and two chairs, but the chairs were cushioned and much more comfortable than the cheap wood of the ones on the main floor. Next to the table was a free-standing metal ice bucket containing an open bottle of champagne that was wrapped in a napkin, and two plastic flutes were on the table. According to one of the bouncers, they used to be glass until an irate customer threw one at a dancer, broken glass blinding her in one eye permanently, and opening the club up to a massive lawsuit from said dancer.
"Darlin', I got a favor I need you to do for me," Delgado said after pouring them both some champagne.
"Uh, okay," Erica said tentatively. "I mean, I guess it would depend on what it was."
"What do you make a night here, Star? Thousand?"
"Some nights, yeah. Depends on the tippers." Erica felt sweat bead on her forehead. This was not what she had been expecting.
"You'll get ten thousand if you do me this favor, okay? Ten good days' work."
Erica was able to control her rather extreme reaction to this offer only due to her tenure at Hot Keys providing her with nightly practice in hiding her true emotional state from those observing her. It was difficult, though, and she sipped some champagne to help cover. "What would I have to do?"
"Something really simple. I alr
eady talked it over with your boss, and he'll give you the rest of the night off."
Dozens of scenarios flew through Erica's head, and all of them involved a true betrayal of Xavier. Would she have to screw one of his friends? One of his bodyguards?
So it was with a combined sense of relief and dread that she reacted to Delgado's next words. "All you gotta do is go to the Cutter's Wharf on Front Street, pick up a guy and get him to take you home."
If anyone else told her this, Erica would have burst out laughing. But Delgado had pull to get the rules of the club — rules that were backed up by Florida State Law — bent.
"Any guy?"
"No — one in particular." Delgado reached into the portfolio he always carried with him and pulled out an 8x10 of a large, bald, no-necked guy who looked big enough to break Erica in two. Hell, he looked big enough to break either of Delgado's bodyguards in two.
"I don't understand, why do you want me — ?"
He put a finger on Erica's lips to quiet her. "Nothing you need to worry about, Star, baby. Just work the same charm you worked on me first time I was here, and he'll be eatin' out of your pretty hand."
Delgado took that pretty hand in his. It felt cold and clammy to Erica, and it was all she could do to keep from yanking it away.
"Look, Erica, all you gotta do is get him to take you home. Once you get him inside, we'll take care of the rest. You won't have to betray Xavier, I promise you that."
A pit opened up in Erica's stomach. So shocked was she by the fact that Delgado knew about Xavier, that it took her a moment to realize that he called her by her given name rather than her stage name. "How did you know about — ?"
"Doesn't matter."
Erica thought it goddamn well did matter, but she said nothing for the moment, mostly because she was too busy being scared. How powerful was this man? Could he do something to Xavier if she didn't cooperate? To her mother?
"See," Delgado went on, "we know the big guy goes to the Wharf to wet his whistle when he's so inclined, and we know he's there tonight listening to one of those crapass folk acts. What we don't know is where he lives."
"Can't you just follow him?"
"Tried that. He shakes every tail we put on him, and he ain't listed nowhere. Plus he always takes a different route home. You're his type, and we've seen him go home with chicks like you before."
Erica bristled, but choked back her response. She decided that he meant women of her physical type by "chicks like you" rather than whores.
Which was what she was feeling like right now.
Reaching into the portfolio once again, he took out a big wad of bills. "This is 5K — you get that up front. That's 'cause I trust you, Star, and I know you'll do me this favor. What's more, you do this for me, besides getting the other five thousand, I also promise that you're off the hook with me."
Erica frowned at that. "Huh?"
"What I mean is, whenever I come to Hot Keys, I'll still take you up here, and tip you the same amount, but you won't have to do anything. You can sit and read a book for an hour for all I care."
Delgado had an easy time making that last promise, as he'd been, typically, growing bored with this place, and he only figured to be coming back for another week at most. The perks were great, of course, what with the lieutenant being part owner and all, but he knew he was going to need fresh meat soon.
Besides, Erica was a nice girl. Nice girls didn't belong in places like this. So he'd do what he could to accelerate her ability to quit this place and get on with her life, and also take care of Faraday, all in one shot.
* * *
When the girl walked into the Cutter's Wharf, Jean-Louis Faraday realized that his night was finally improving.
He'd been in a funk since McAvoy died. Maxwell had been a mess, and then that Cooper guy decided to show up and wreck her car. Of course, Faraday had loaned Maxwell his old rattletrap. He could manage without wheels for a little while. It meant more walking but, as long as it wasn't raining, the island was a good place to get around on by foot.
Usually, though, he could count on coming to Cutter's and having a good time, listening to good tunes, drinking some fine beer, and maybe finding some nice tail to bring home.
Up until the hot chick walked in, only the beer part had worked out tonight. The usual acoustic act had taken the night off — according to Mick, the bartender, he had the flu and the sore throat was bad enough that he couldn't even talk, much less sing — and the fill-in was just bad. He couldn't keep his guitar in tune for more than half a song, he had no range, and he kept butchering the lyrics of the songs he covered.
The lack of good music had an effect on the tail quotient, too. Bad music meant fewer babes. The only women in the bar were curvy voluptuous types, like Lola only with a lot more fat, and Faraday was pretty much repulsed. He liked his women the way he liked his milk: fat free.
He was just about to give up on the evening, when a beautiful skinny girl with coffee-colored skin and great hips came in. Best of all, she made a beeline for the bar. Faraday was sitting at a small round table nearby, so he got a good look at how hot she looked in the tight white T-shirt, which allowed a nice lacy bra to be seen underneath, and a pair of very tight electric blue shorts that exposed fully her amazing legs.
She smiled shyly at him as she slid onto the bar stool, then ordered a rum and Coke from Mick.
Mick looked at Faraday, who nodded in response. Mick nodded right back, understanding. He'd been coming here long enough that Mick knew what he liked.
When Mick brought her the glass, she reached into the small purse she was carrying, but the bartender held up a hand. "It's on the gentleman," he said in his brogue.
Faraday shook his bald head and chuckled. He was many things, but a gentleman was not one of them. Faraday was born in Miami, and had lived all up and down the state. He was born big, and that pretty much dictated how he lived his life. He played high-school football because he was big. He got odd jobs as a door dragon at parties because he was big. He always got what he wanted from people because he was big.
Then he blew out his knee a week before the state championship. Coach gave him a shitload of painkillers so he could play one final game. The knee never quite healed properly, and Faraday became addicted to the pills. He couldn't play football anymore, and he was hooked on the drugs, so he worked as an enforcer for whoever would hire him.
It was in Key Largo that Lola Maxwell had nailed him, and he dried out in the joint. By the time he did his bit — without ratting on his boss, because you didn't do that — he was clean. He also had had enough of the life. He'd been well paid for his enforcement job, and the drug crew he worked for gave him a nice bonus when he took the charge and kept his mouth shut. Good soldiers were rewarded. Nobody said boo when he said he wasn't coming back to work, either. After all, Florida was well stocked with big men looking for work, who were younger and stronger than Faraday, and had more heart for it.
Since he wasn't drugging anymore, the bonus money was his to spend. If he needed some extra cash, he'd get a job bouncing or loading crates at one of the many piers and docks up and down the Keys. Plus, he was officially one of Maxwell's confidential informants, and as a CI, he got a regular stipend.
His needs were few, so he always had enough to buy a pretty girl a drink.
This particular pretty girl came over to his table, drink in hand. "Thanks so much, Mr. Gentleman."
He chuckled. "Nothing to it, ma'am. Have a seat."
"I will." She had a certain grace when she sat, and Faraday thought that maybe she was a dancer. He wasn't much for strip joints — he knew too much about how they really worked to ever enjoy himself there — so maybe she was one of the local talent.
She held out a perfectly manicured hand. "I'm Star."
"Really?"
She winced. "I know, I know, blame my parents. My mother's car broke down on the way to the hospital, and my Dad had to help her give birth on the shoulder of the interstate.
There was a shooting star when I came out, so that's what they called me. Stupid, right?"
"Not at all," Faraday said, though in fact, he thought it was pretty cheesy. "The governor of Alaska named one of her kids 'Trig' because it was her favorite subject."
She had a musical laugh. Faraday loved throwing out odd bits of trivia at people. For one thing, they never expected it from him, being a big guy and all. That usually translated in people's brains to "dumb." Faraday himself had given in to it, going for football at the expense of his academic career, because that was what he, as a big guy, was supposed to do. Then, when he got hooked on drugs, he had to work to pay for this habit that Coach had forced upon him.
Coach was fired two years later, and then he was arrested for distributing steroids to his students. Faraday didn't know what had happened to the man after that — probably jail, or maybe witness protection in exchange for giving up his supplier — but it was always a regret of his that he hadn't been able to take proper revenge on the old bastard after he got out of stir.
But Faraday was tired of just being the big guy — the thug. Whether as a linebacker or as an enforcer, his job was to knock people down until they couldn't get up. He was sick of that. That was why he was only interested in small women. He had to be gentle with them.
For the next hour or so, Faraday learned that Star was a student working her way through college at Florida State, but she was taking a semester off to "enjoy the Keys."
The only breaks in the conversation came when one of them had to use the rest room, or when a new song started and they both winced at how badly the guy on stage was massacring it.
When he started playing "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard," Star got up. "You wanna go someplace? Maybe where they're not raping my childhood? My dad was a huge Simon and Garfunkel fan, and this just hurts."
"Thought you'd never ask," Faraday said with a feral grin. "My place is a nice walk from here."
Star smiled. "Works for me."
Deep Recon Page 6