Bolan listened, sifting through the mixture of flattery and rationalization for details, fleshing out what he'd already learned as he mentally adjusted his sights on the next hellzone.
* * *
Working the sails and tiller easily, Bolan let the gentle wind push him toward the target area. The sloop was almost twenty-five feet long and sleek, cutting through the dark water in near silence.
The quietness of the night and the sea was refreshing, and Bolan couldn't help noticing it. There was a certain sense of aloneness that always seemed to come with the territory when he'd set foot on a sailboat; a sweet-and-sour ache that impressed itself on him, reminding him that the craft was an island tossed out on a hungry sea and survival depended on skill. The feeling seemed to be lost when it came to the bigger ships, but perhaps it was only the presence of the other people involved.
Or maybe it only seemed obvious to him because his life's path could be likened to that of the sailboat. Mack Bolan had never run with the safety of numbers. And those numbers were even fewer now, though the stakes sometimes appeared to be higher than ever. His life, as he had charted it, was spread across a sea of political and criminal strife that was every bit as dark and ominous as the one he sat on top of now.
The sea had its monsters, and the one he had tracked to its till now was belching up white-powdered death on the Miami shore.
He trimmed the sails and felt the forward progress of the sloop come to a gliding halt as he reached for his binoculars. Fitting them to his eyes, he searched the near shore for the yacht Cullen had named.
Cool winds curled around him, and he knew they would have made him shiver if it hadn't been for the insulated blacksuit he wore.
There had been a few other craft moving across the black ocean surface, but he'd been careful to tack away from them without rousing interest.
Uneasiness squirmed through his mind and, despite his attempts, he couldn't brush it away. He tried to put a finger on what was bothering him and came up with a blank. Still, he trusted those senses he'd honed in the jungle, knowing they were as much a part of whatever arsenal he carried into battle as any piece of equipment he'd ever used.
Cullen's story had rung true. The biker hadn't been privy to everything about the cocaine operation or its extent, but he had known names. One of them belonged to the yacht Bolan searched for now, and another was the owner's.
The problem was, Bolan felt sure the yacht owner knew a name closer to the top.
The pipeline had been carefully organized, leaving only a slender thread that stretched in either direction of whatever routes the deliveries took. And enough middlemen were employed to make discovery of the entire operation almost impossible. In Colombia the sources were protected by machete and automatic weapons, buried deep in the jungle. In Miami the brokers were protected by subterfuge and bribery, buried deep in bureaucratic red tape.
Every time the federal and local police made a move to uncover the Miami connection, the buyers and brokers knew about their plans in advance and were able to avoid discovery. And brave law enforcement people were losing their lives as well as the war as the losses they suffered escalated.
Bolan saw it as a logistics problem of supply and demand. Whoever was ultimately at the Miami end of the operation was making enough money not to be greedy about it and to spread it around as a safety cushion.
Only the Executioner didn't have to sidestep the red tape or worry about the political clout that might be directed at him. His concerns revolved around the police agencies he was aiding. Without their knowledge.
He smiled grimly as he refocused the binoculars on the target vessel.
Even if Brognola had been able to erect some sort of cover that would allow him access to the current investigations on tap in Miami, that cover would have been bound to a certain extent by the same strictures that applied to the law enforcement people already involved. By calling his own shots on his attack on the enemy, he knew he was running more risks. But the chances for immediate success went up, as well.
The yacht was the Swift Tiger and was almost seventy feet of expensive combing and flash. According to Cullen, the yacht originally hailed from the Georgia coastline before the owner found a berth in the cocaine action in Florida and the Keys. She was owned by Harlan Duncan, though Cullen assured Bolan that was not the name on the paperwork involved in the yacht's title.
Duncan was a wild man who'd spent time in South Africa as a mercenary until he's saved up enough cash to purchase the yacht and buy his way into his first drug enterprise. Since then, according to Cullen, the man had learned to be careful and became more, choosy about operations he became involved with. He had a rep as a shooter when things came down to the wire, and for knowing who to sell out. The only mistake made by Duncan was When the man unloaded Cullen on the Dade vice cops during a buy-back from a racket supplied by the confiscated drugs of two police departments in the area. The police departments had since cleaned house, and Duncan had gone on to brighter horizons before being implicated in the operation.
Bolan intended to dim those horizons tonight.
The Swift Tiger had settled into a public berth for now, setting up for what Cullen had designated as a major buy for a group of out-of-town bikers called Death's Enforcers.
The earlier uneasiness drifted over Bolan again as he surveyed his target. Duncan was a known trafficker, yet no one had seemed able to lay a glove on him.
He turned it over in his mind, searching for the reason for the uneasiness. No one could touch Duncan, although Cullen obviously knew more about the man's operation than what seemed reasonable if the trafficker was doing a quiet business. Some of the informants Bolan had talked with earlier in the day had also mentioned Duncan's name, though they hadn't known about the buy tonight.
The guy's operation wasn't exactly a secret, Bolan reflected as he examined the vessels closest to the Swift Tiger and failed to find anything that would trigger his combat sense. Cullen had even known about the buy set up by the Death's Enforcers bikers.
Then Bolan realized he'd found the source of his uneasiness. How could the law enforcement people involved in the investigation not know about Duncan and the prearranged buy if so much Intel was on the streets of the city?
He didn't know the answer to that; all he knew was that it didn't scan.
No matter how he tried to turn it around in his mind, it didn't seem possible that the agencies scooping out the new cocaine pipeline could have overlooked Duncan. Not unless people in those agencies were accepting payoffs and had kicked dirt over Duncan's name every time it turned up.
That was possible but not probable. You couldn't keep that kind of suppression up for long without being found out. And it seemed even less likely when he took into consideration the fact that the Miami PD had reacted so quickly to shut down the activity at the Red Rooster. Clearly they'd been geared to shut down any biker-related problems tonight.
Light rain started to fall, and he grimaced, knowing that if it got any worse it would definitely be a drawback in any action he took against the Swift Tiger.
So, if the law enforcement people knew about Duncan and perhaps the buy tonight, the Swift Tiger was the bait in a sucker play.
But who was the intended victim?
It could play any of a number of ways, Bolan told himself as he put the binoculars away and started filling out the sail. If the DEA or Miami PD was behind the suck, it meant someone had gotten to Duncan. That could mean they'd given up, at least for the moment, any hope of nailing the upper crust of the pipeline in order to make a big strike against the bulk of the operation. In which case, it wouldn't matter who the victim was as long as there was someone who could be made an example of. Maybe the Death's Enforcers bikers were just going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
And it could be a reverse suck.
The thought left Bolan colder than the wind and the rain.
As a reverse suck, it could be used to expose — if not kill out
right — many of the law enforcement people involved in the investigation.
Either way, the impending action on the shoreline figured to be a bloodbath once someone kicked open the door.
Catching the wind, he guided his sailboat closer to the shore and the Swift Tiger, squinting through the heavier rain. Lightning flashed through the dark clouds skimming into view, followed a slow eight-count and later by a long peal of thunder.
Taking a berth along the dark wall of the pier, he dropped anchor and tested the boat motor. It caught easily. Satisfied, he covered it and went below.
The cabin was cramped, and there wasn't enough room to stand up straight. He filled the pockets of the blacksuit with extra magazines for the Desert Eagle and Beretta, gar-rotes, a folding knife and other necessary items. After pulling the black trench coat back on, he dropped three grenades in the voluminous pockets and added a navy blue yachting cap to make people remember him as wearing a dark cap rather than having dark hair. He slung an Uzi under his left arm, then pulled the trench coat over it. Then he headed back up to the deck and the rainstorm that was rolling in.
If there was a war in the makings, he intended to be ready for it and to make his presence count for something. And to salvage whatever he could from it that might move him up the next rung of the pipeline.
* * *
The rain continued to fall, turning from a heavy sprinkling of needlelike drops to driving sheets that galed across the marina. Jagged streaks of lightning carved sizzling, white-hot arcs across a sky that had turned darker than the roiling water below it.
Bolan shifted, hunkering down to take advantage of the trench coat's length and to remain in the shadows piled atop the boat repair shop he'd chosen for his observation post. Thunder crackled on the heels of more lightning. At least the rain was warm.
Taking his binoculars from a pocket of the trench coat, he scanned the deck of the Swift Tiger again. No movement. Apparently Duncan and his crew had decided to batten down the hatches and wait the storm out. Or at least not put in an appearance until the Death's Enforcers came calling.
He wondered how Duncan would have felt if he suspected another storm was brewing on the heels of the one that was rocking his yacht at present.
It had taken Bolan forty-five minutes to make a recon of the area without drawing attention to himself. He hadn't found all the people involved, but he'd placed enough of them to know Duncan's craft was going to be the prize in a grim contest that night.
At least fifteen law enforcement people were ensconced in the darkness below, with two snipers backing their play from rooftops of different heights.
Thunder pealed and took away sound for a moment.
Bolan moved through the recon again, remembering the details about the area that he'd implanted in his mind. He could reach out mentally and touch each one. The worn wooden planking, fronting the marina area proper, that scuffed under his boot soles; the neon lights of the various taverns and restaurants in the area, which catered to the tourists, that would be visible even if fog rolled in from the sea; the casual conversations of the frequent passersby; the smell of ozone and brine in the air. It was all there in his mind, cataloged and carefully filed away for future reference.
Angling the brim of the yacht cap down a little farther as protection against the driving rain, he turned the binoculars toward the woman he'd spotted earlier.
He hadn't placed her in the scheme of things yet, and she remained a mystery. But there was no mistaking the interest she had in the Swift Tiger. As a guess, he had figured her to be part of the DEA team.
Lightning flashed without warning, washing away all color and reducing the marina to a black-and-white world for the next few seconds.
The woman was tall, Bolan judged from her surroundings, perhaps as much as six feet and surely no less than five-ten. Her attitude set her apart from her companions as much as her gender. She seemed apprehensive about the stakeout, whereas the others Bolan had spotted appeared to be only restless.
Bolan took her features in as she turned to gaze back along the winding street that led to the marina. Fine bone structure, wide-set eyes, short-cropped auburn hair. She wore a raincoat but didn't have it buttoned, revealing a dull gray sweatshirt, jeans and dark tennis shoes.
He was puzzled as he watched her speak briefly into a walkie-talkie. If the unit was sure the cocaine was aboard the Swift Tiger — as they evidently were — they should have been closing in for the bust. What made the Death's Enforcers so important that they had to be brought down along with Duncan? It was unclear to Bolan what the law enforcement team planned to do if the motorcycle gang showed up in force — unless they had information guaranteeing that the bikers wouldn't. That line of thinking brought even more questions to mind about what direction had the Intel been funneled from concerning the buy. Cullen had told him the Death's Enforcers were from Toronto, which was a long way from home for them. It was quite a distance to transport cocaine, especially if there were as many leaks about the buy as there appeared to be. Cullen was in the know, as were most obviously the locals and the DEA.
Bolan had to surmise there was even more buried under the surface of the operation than what was immediately apparent.
Before he could explore the complexities of his new line of thinking, the flat, blatting noise of a half-dozen motorcycle engines blasted through the night.
Shifting the binoculars, he switched to a wide-angle view on the winding road leading to the marina.
The motorcycles rode two abreast, their headlights uncertain in the falling rain. The riders' leather jackets looked dark and heavy with accumulated moisture.
Glancing back at the positions the law enforcement people were holding, Bolan watched flickers of dark movement and could sense the tension building in the ranks below.
A handful of umbrellas floated across the service road separating the docking area of the marina from the businesses. One paused, tipped back long enough for Bolan to see the teenage girl's face beneath it, then hurried on once she realized her route would intersect the bikers' path if she dawdled.
Training the binoculars back on the yacht, Bolan saw a shadow appear on the Swift Tiger's deck, then fade.
The motorcycles came to a halt on the concrete parking area above the yacht's slip. The lights and engines switched off as the riders stumbled from their bikes. Their gestures suggested a swirl of curses on the air as most of the riders waved their arms and shook their heads in visible anger.
One of the bikers separated from the group, and Bolan brought him into sharp relief with the Bausch & Lombs. The man was tall and lean, with a long stride that seemed confident. He paused halfway down the metal steps leading to the docking area and gave orders. Bolan could tell that from the way the remainder of the group reacted. Three of the five Death's Enforcers members spread out in an obvious maneuver designed to guard the area.
To his left Bolan saw the nearest police sniper elevate his weapon slightly, evidently making a target selection. The man tapped a walkie-talkie lying on the rooftop by the butt of the rifle.
Bolan checked the other positions he'd marked on his mental map. He found that nobody moved to secure the area.
An uncomfortable itch started between his shoulder blades. If it looked like a duck, sounded like a duck and smelled like a duck, then obviously it was a duck. So what made the stakeout not a stakeout?
Someone switched on an electric lantern on the Swift Tiger and a weak yellow cone splashed against the deck.
Using the light available, wishing he had a Star-Tron scope to study the situation, Bolan memorized the face of the biker gang's leader. The guy looked to be in his early thirties, bearded and long-haired, but there was a quality about him that set him apart from the others.
The Death's Enforcers' leader vanished inside the yacht, followed by two of his men.
Bolan peered over the binoculars, taking in the full view of the scene.
Why weren't the law enforcement squads moving in?
The parties they could nab in the drug buy were in the net, and the risk of innocent people getting caught in the cross fire was lower than it would have been if the storm hadn't blown in.
Sails ballooned from the masts of the other boats around the Swift Tiger as wire and rope riggings rattled in response.
Bolan watched the time pass on his watch, taking brief glances at the luminous hands under his sleeve. Lightning flashed and created mirror images in the puddles gathered across the rooftop in front of him.
It didn't make sense for the stakeout members to wait.
Unless some of the Swift Tiger's crew had spotted the personnel involved as the soldier had. Duncan was an ex-merc. It didn't take a great leap of imagination to think the man was still as security conscious now as he had been in his South Africa days.
But if Duncan knew, would he still remain in the berth?
Bolan fitted the glasses back to his eyes and searched for the mystery woman, realizing Duncan would stay in the area if he'd dumped the cocaine in the sea and knew he had nothing to worry about when the bust went down.
The flaw in that deduction was that Cullen had said the amount of cocaine the Death's Enforcers members were buying was considerable. Would Duncan be willing to lose that much money?
Bolan didn't think so.
The woman looked more apprehensive than ever. She had crouched a little farther down behind the vehicle she'd taken cover behind. But every line of her body told Bolan she was apparently expecting the worst.
Putting the glasses away, Bolan returned to his surveillance of the yacht. Waiting, just like everyone else. He felt disgusted. If he'd been on his own in this one, he could have already penetrated Duncan's defenses and perhaps gotten his hands on the information he needed.
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