As it was, even if Duncan wasn't killed as a result of tonight's activities, the man would at least become the property of whatever law enforcement agency was heading up the stakeout.
Or whatever the hell the gathering was below.
The door of the yacht opened again, and the three bikers came back on deck carrying saddlebags, followed by a large bulky man in a Japanese-style robe. He clapped one of the bikers on the back and grinned, obviously enjoying the role of host.
Bolan tried to sort it out as he watched the three bikers walk up the metal steps. Okay, if Duncan didn't know about the police teams waiting in the darkness, why were those teams waiting to spring the trap?
Just as the bikers were converging on their motorcycles, a shot rang out and staggered one of them.
Bolan dragged the Uzi out, snapping off the safety as he brushed away the tails of the trench coat.
Hoarse shouts came in response.
The bikers scrambled, two of them lifting the wounded man onto a motorcycle behind the driver as the deep thunder of Harley engines coughed to life. More shots slammed through the night as the police unit sluggishly came to life.
The slow reaction speed of the surveillance teams told Bolan at once that someone had broken a holding order. The shot had sounded like one of the sniper rifles of the two men he'd spotted earlier, but he couldn't be sure which one with the wind and thunder masking the direction of the sound.
On board the yacht Duncan abandoned the deck in favor of the churning water. Bolan watched the ex-merc hit the surface of the ocean and cursed, launching into full stride as he tried to keep the man in sight. Duncan was the connection he needed to the next layer of the pipeline. Pumping his legs as hard as he could, he leaped from the roof he was on to the roof of a small cafe. The trench coat billowed out behind him, threatening to become tangled. He landed roughly, rolling across the rock-and-tar surface of the cafe. A shiver of autofire chased him, chipping pits in the tar: one of the police snipers had seen him.
Knowing the time for the high ground was at an end, he got his feet under him again and ran for the side of the building overlooking an alley that spilled out onto the marina street. Sparks flared from some of the roof rocks as another round whined off into the night.
Without breaking stride, he dropped over the edge onto the top of the Dumpster he'd seen in his earlier recon, then stepped quickly into the alley proper. Taking up a position at the corner of the building, he evaluated the action unfolding around the Swift Tiger.
A biker with a machine pistol gripped in both hands was raking the front of the building where the closest police sniper was. The other Death's Enforcers had scattered, choosing separate routes out of the immediate area.
Where would Duncan go? Bolan crossed the street at a dead run, knowing his dark clothing would prevent the snipers from knowing whose team he was on.
Lead hail from at least four weapons caught the biker and deposited him in a loose heap near the two motorcycles.
Hand-held searchlights probed the yacht's deck, brushing across the figures scattering toward the railing.
Bolan took cover in the vehicles near the area where he had seen the lady cop. Someone had a bullhorn and was bellowing orders in a harsh, angry voice, directing half his attention to the people on the Swift Tiger and half to the cops under his command. From controlled surveillance to fiasco in seconds. The disgust filled Bolan again as he crept through the parked cars.
Screams tore through the night, punctuated by the exchange of shots coming from the yacht and the surveillance team.
A flash of auburn hair caught his attention, diverting it for a moment from the choppy surface of the sea around the Swift Tiger.
Swiveling around the Ford Bronco next to him, Bolan watched the woman racing toward the fallen biker. Her tight features told him she had only one purpose on her mind and hadn't noticed the dark figure rising up from the ocean with a stainless-steel pistol clenched in its fist.
Bolan recognized Duncan immediately and moved out when he saw he couldn't fire without hitting the woman as she passed between them. He threw himself at her as Duncan locked into target acquisition, knowing death was only a heartbeat away.
3
Bolan reached for the woman and covered her with his body as his forward momentum spilled them to the hard concrete.
She fought against him, driving a sharp elbow into his ribs even as he struggled to free the Uzi. He caught the muzzle-flash of Duncan's weapon in the same second he felt the pain rip along his side.
The machine pistol came free as the ex-merc fired again, scarring the concrete by Bolan's head. Cradling the weapon in both hands, the Executioner squeezed the trigger. The Uzi snarled, and a line of 9 mm parabellums smashed into Duncan's chest, blowing the man backward.
Angry with the way the situation had turned out, Bolan rolled off the woman and recharged the machine pistol. The firing on board the yacht hadn't been dimmed by the shouted commands of the police.
"Are you okay?" he asked her.
"Fine," she said with a small nod. She appeared visibly shaken by the close call but seemed more interested in getting to the fallen biker.
Bolan followed her, wanting to get as close as possible to the main thrust of the action without standing apart from the crowd. If Bolan acted as though he belonged with the woman, most of the others shouldn't question his presence. At least for a little while, or until her real partners noticed him. It was a variation on the role-camouflage skills he'd perfected during his tours in Vietnam — becoming a part of the accepted background and fading into unimportance. But the marina was a hot spot, and no matter how good he was, he knew his time there was limited.
Squad cars rocketed down the marina street with sirens wailing, and the flashing light bars reflected splinters of color in the windows of the nearby businesses.
Pausing beside the dead biker, Bolan watched the police assault team close in on the yacht.
"Help me," the woman said as she tugged on the corpse. Her voice sounded hoarse, strained.
Bolan knelt and grabbed a fistful of leather jacket. He tugged and the body flipped over in response.
"Thank God," she breathed. Her relief was obvious as she tilted her head back. Tears mixed in with the raindrops.
"Did you think it was someone you knew?" Bolan asked.
She looked at him, control slipping into place behind the dark eyes. Her hand found her pistol where she'd laid it on the ground beside the corpse.
Bolan recognized it as the Smith & Wesson stainless-steel 10 mm the FBI had recently adopted for field operatives, telling him his guess about her probable DEA connections were dead on target. But who had she believed the dead biker to be?
The Smith & Wesson came up slightly in her hand, not enough to be a threat, but enough to remind him it was still there. "Who are you?" she demanded.
"Mike Belasko," Bolan said, knowing Brognola could drop the familiar alias into the cocaine investigation easily if it became necessary.
"I don't know you," she said. Her words were a challenge.
"I don't know you, either, lady." Bolan waved toward the yacht. "Hell, I don't know about most of this. I just walked in on this scene."
"And happened to be carrying an Uzi?"
Bolan shook his head as if in disbelief at her attitude. "Look, lady, I'm not expecting any pat on the head for saving your ass back there, but I'd at least expect you to be decent about it. Hell, I nearly got my own ass shot off trying to save yours."
"Can it, Belasko. Who the hell do you work for?"
"The Coast Guard."
"And you just happened to be in the area?"
Bolan snorted with annoyance, playing his role as a macho cop to the hilt. "Look, sister, I'm on vacation. I got a boat back there and was thinking about a late-night snack to wait out the storm when I noticed you guys huddled around the Swift Tiger looking like you were ready to sack the quarterback. If I butted into a private party, I'm goddamn sorry about it.
But what's done is done. I slipped back to my boat, picked up a little artillery and decided to see what was going down for myself. The Tiger's not exactly unknown to us, you know."
The woman got to her feet. "Did you ever think about calling someone about this setup before you jumped in, Belasko?"
"I didn't have time, lady. Before I realized for sure what was going down, all hell broke loose and I saw that guy ready to blow you away. I get the chance next time, I'll be sure and give the good guys a call first. That suit you?"
For a moment Bolan thought she was going to lose her temper. Then she mumbled an obscenity and turned away from him, heading for the area where Duncan had gone back into the water.
Not wanting to lose the flimsy credibility her presence lent him, Bolan followed, hoping for a chance to look things over for himself.
The assault squad had moved in on the yacht now, kicking in the door and demanding all hands on deck. At least a dozen people, male and female, were lying facedown on the bullet-pocked surface.
"That was Duncan you shot, wasn't it?" the woman asked when she noticed him behind her.
"Yes, ma'am," Bolan said, glancing around at the crowd that started to gather by the police cruisers.
"Where?"
Bolan moved ahead and knelt on the wooden railing where he'd shot Duncan. A dark blob floated only inches below the surface of the water. He leaned forward, reaching for it, twisting his fingers in the wet silk, then guiding the floating weight gently upward and inward.
"Oh, my God!" a feminine voice shrilled.
Glancing up, Bolan saw a teenage girl in a bikini standing on the deck of a nearby houseboat and staring at the corpse he was pulling from the water.
"Sergeant!" The woman's voice at his side was harsh and imperative as she stood and yelled to the nearest cop in a yellow rain slicker.
The cop glared at her.
"Get this area cordoned off now, Sergeant. Tell those people this is not a public event they can stand around and gawk at. Until we get the marina secured, we have to assume some of Duncan's people got away."
The cop stomped to the edge of the concrete wall. "Look, I don't need you telling me how to run my job. I don't know who the hell you think you are, but…"
The woman cut him off. "Special Agent Piper Silverman, Sergeant, of the DEA. We're running this operation. If you'd listened at roll call instead of going for that last-minute nap maybe you'd be more on top of this situation. Now get the lead out."
Bolan paused, watching the cop to see how things were going to develop. For a moment it seemed undecided, then the cop moved off to issue orders to the other uniformed men. The mother of the girl on the houseboat came and took her away, and everything quietened down under the storm again.
Kneeling, Silverman extended a leg in the water, found something she could step on, then added her strength to Bolan's. The body seemed to come free immediately and landed on the wooden surface with a wet plop of loose-jointed limbs.
"Jesus," Silverman said as she looked at the ruin the 9 mm parabellums had made of the man's chest.
"It's worse on the other side," Bolan assured her. He studied her face in the uncertain splash of the lightning and spotlights being splayed over the marina. His estimate of her age had been about right. At close proximity he saw that she was probably a couple of years younger, and the anxiety that had been troubling her had left a dark shadow on her features.
"Are you always this cheerful, Belasko?" Silverman asked as she holstered her automatic in a shoulder rig.
"Some days are better than others," Bolan admitted.
"You're probably the kind of guy who likes to attend autopsies, too."
Bolan helped her pat the dead man down, wondering what had the woman so tense. "You two make a pretty good team, Silverman," he said.
"What two?"
"You and that chip on your shoulder."
"Get screwed, Belasko. This is a DEA case you goddamn local cowboys nearly fucked up. I don't need any goddamn comments about interdepartmental relations at the moment. You got a beef, take it up with your superiors."
"No beef. I'm on vacation, remember?"
"Yeah. And you should have kept your nose in your own business instead of trying to score a few brownie points here tonight."
"A couple of those points came in when I took this guy out for you."
She paused, leaning forward.
Bolan could sense the brittleness covering her emotions and was puzzled by her tension. Evidently she wasn't new in the field. She handled the uniformed police with too much experience for that.
"Yeah, well, at the time you were racking 'em up, Dead-eye, did you happen to think we might have wanted this asshole alive?"
He didn't speak, waiting to see how she was going to handle the situation she was forcing.
She broke eye contact and looked away, her lower lip trembling slightly with the effort of keeping the emotions in. When she looked back at him, her eyes were misty. "Hey, look," she said in a more sedate tone, "I was out of line there. It's not you or even this dead lump here. It's just that I got a few other things on my mind right now. You understand?"
Bolan nodded.
"Help me get him turned over. I didn't find anything in his front pockets."
He flipped the body over and heard her gasp of surprise when she saw the exit wounds. Her hands shook when she reached for the pants pockets.
Bolan caught them gently and pushed them away. "Let me," he said. "You're going to have to look good for the photographers and press boys and the brief after this is finished."
"I've seen dead bodies before, Belasko," she said in a voice that was less cocky than before.
"Yeah, I know. It's that kind of job." For a moment he thought she was going to be stubborn about it, then saw the spark of defiance die in her eyes. "You're pushing yourself too hard tonight, lady," he said gently.
"It's that kind of job," she repeated.
"Yeah, well, take a breather for a minute and let me handle this. You can watch my hands and make sure I don't try to crib anything." Bolan went through the corpse's pockets with practiced ease, not expecting to turn anything up and not feeling surprised or disappointed when he didn't. He glanced back at the woman. "Duncan's clean. Probably left everything back on the yacht. What kind of ID do you need to manage a dope buy?"
"You seem pretty informed for a guy on vacation, Belasko. You know about Duncan and about the Swift Tiger."
Bolan shrugged. "Goes with the territory."
"Yeah, I guess it does." But her eyes still glowed with subdued suspicion. "Kind of makes me wonder what else you know about."
The quietness spun around them, as fragile as glass and promising to be full of cutting edges if it was broken in the wrong way. He glanced away from her, checking the movement on the Swift Tiger before she could ask any questions he wasn't prepared to field.
The law enforcement teams had swept across the deck, and the yellow slickers of the Miami Police Department were starting to dominate the numbers. Bolan knew his impromptu cover wouldn't hold much longer, but he hated to quit the killzone empty-handed. He wanted to uncover why the cops willingly let the bikers escape unscathed, with no signs of pursuit. Then there was Piper Silverman… who had she feared for? And the lead to Duncan's next link in the cocaine pipeline was missing. He knew at least some clues would be found on the yacht, but the marina was getting too hot too fast to provide a safe harbor for him. Once the initial reaction of the bust waned and immediate retaliation to opposing forces died away, the officers involved would start checking the people around them more closely. And he'd already made himself known to Silverman and the police sniper who had tried to take him out. The situation was rapidly becoming more explosive.
"I hope you didn't have anywhere to go real soon, Belasko," Silverman said as she got to her feet, "because I want to ask you a few questions."
"I'm on vacation, lady."
"Yeah, well it seems to me you took yourself off vacati
on when you decided to draw cards against the hand being played out here tonight."
"Getting to spend the rest of the night with the Feds and the local cops isn't exactly my idea of walking away a winner."
Silverman glanced at Duncan's body deliberately. "At least you're walking away, Belasko."
"I suppose so."
"Anyway, clear everything up with the shooting teams and you'll probably be free to go."
"Thanks," Bolan said. But he didn't believe her. He could see the curiosity and doubt lingering in her eyes, and knew she wasn't going to let his presence on the scene slide that easily.
"Silverman!" The harsh male voice bellowing the woman's name carried a lot of authority as it cut through the shallow winds gliding through the marina.
Silverman looked up and Bolan followed her gaze.
A squat, powerfully built man separated himself from the crowd leaving the deck of the Swift Tiger. The upturned collar of the dark raincoat almost met the brim of his sharply creased fedora, leaving doubts about the existence of any neck at all. He came to a sudden halt at the end of the parking area overlooking the wooden walkway. He stared at Duncan's body and said, "Shit."
Bolan got to his feet, aware that the man was giving him more than a casual inspection.
"That Duncan?" the man asked as he cupped his hands and lit a cigar. The lighter gleamed silver briefly, held captive in the man's thick, blunt fingers, then blossomed into a floating yellow-gold stream that ignited the cigar tip into an orange coal.
Silverman nodded, brushing wet hair back from her face.
"Nice piece of work, Silverman," the man commented, his hoarse voice full of sarcasm. "Your idea?"
"Hell, no," the lady Fed responded as she gripped the edge of the railing facing the parking area and pulled herself up. "Meet Belasko, one of the Coast Guard's local heroes and representative of the Miami movement for law and order, complemented by a fast gun."
"What the hell is he doing here?" the man asked as Silverman swung up to face him.
"How the hell should I know, Judson? This is supposed to be your goddamn operation, remember? I'm just supposed to sit back and file my nails while the senior member of this team coordinates everything."
Wild Card Page 4