Wild Card

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan had seen enough to convince him the man was Hunsaker. He put the binoculars away and moved on, letting instinct and experience lead off on a tangent that would put him on a collision course with the beach house.

  His mind searched out for possibilities and connections as he moved, trying to separate the events of Hunsaker's story from the trouble he'd seen at the marina. And he was sure they were separate, leaving him with even more of a puzzle than either situation would have alone.

  He brushed a wet leaf from his face slowly, searching for Hunsaker's bodyguards with more than just his eyes and ears. Combat senses, honed in lush and verdant jungles half a world away, had proved invaluable in his quest through the concrete hunting grounds his targets thrived in now.

  Hunsaker had been the broker and the chairman over the latest cocaine pipeline to hit Miami's beaches and spread a consistently good supply northward in increasing quantity. It had all come together, the woman had said, when Hunsaker had defended some high-ranking members of the Medellin cartel the previous October. The case had been built for almost a year by a local DEA man named Baskins, and had gone to court before a jury by an assistant DA with ten years' trial experience. It should have been a go, because the DEA had pushers who were willing to roll over on the Colombians for reduced sentences. Then Ronald J. Hunsaker took over as defense attorney and busted the case all to hell. There were unconfirmed rumors that Hunsaker mediated deals between the witnesses and the Colombians for cash and threats. Another rumor suggested that Hunsaker had negotiated a contract with a local wiseguy that removed the two dealers who wouldn't reach for the cash. Maybe the cops were in on it, as well, guys whom Hunsaker had helped out on occasion and still owed him. But everything was just rumor and suspicion, at least as far as a court of law was concerned. When a vice detective had made some comments implicating Hunsaker in the newspapers, he had successfully sued, and it ultimately cost the detective his job. And in the meantime, he'd set himself up with the Colombians as a contractor. Hunsaker arranged deals for shipments, then used his contacts within the drug networks he had been defending for years, setting up buys and deliveries without even being near the operation. He knew the Miami area extensively, knew who could be trusted to move the product honestly and craftily. As a defense lawyer, Hunsaker had turned out to be a hell of a talent scout for the Colombian producers. He'd come up with a deal sweet enough to interest everyone involved.

  As a result the past few months had seen Ronny Hunsaker start taking grave losses in the popularity polls he had at one time dominated.

  But Bolan figured the man wasn't bothered by that loss at all. Judging from the continued success of the system Hunsaker had put into play, the lawyer was too busy building an empire to aspire to any public awards. And the money continued to spill in, flooding the pockets of corrupt judges and cops whenever the need arose, a green frosting overlaying the white snow that was showering the sun-dappled beaches. Like the cocaine, there was plenty of it to go around. When it needed to.

  The operation had spread like a hydra, with tentacles reaching everywhere. Only, unlike that mythical sea monster, the hydra Bolan hunted had only one head.

  And the Executioner had arrived, all set to remove it.

  Afterward the host body would die a little more each day as the system fell into dysfunction and the justice system was encouraged to hold sway again in this corner of the world. Hopefully it would bear fruit. Even if only for a little while.

  It was that hope and dream that pushed Bolan through his solitary life. Justice worked. Most of the time. Every now and then, though, you had to give it a shove. And the Executioner didn't mind stepping forward to do the job.

  Radio static crackled and popped to his left, then became quickly muted.

  Bolan froze, becoming one with the bush he crouched behind. His hand wrapped around the hilt of the Ka-bar sheathed in his left boot, slid it free. The mat finish of the blade gleamed dully for just an instant before he masked it in the shadow of his body. He strained his hearing, focusing on the faint radio projection.

  Three cars were parked out in front of the beach house. Bolan had the Mercedes pegged as Hunsaker's, but guessed the remaining two belonged to the men the attorney had called out to watch over him while he finished up last-minute business.

  Bolan shifted his weight forward, resting it on the balls of his toes, ready to uncoil at a second's notice. If he had to, he'd use the silenced Beretta to take the man out. But the knife meant close work, and he wanted to control the falling body if at all possible.

  The guard walked tall and unafraid through the cloistered palms, carrying a MAC-10 in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other. He was big and blocky, as though he'd been formed of rough-cut 4×4 timbers and had the flesh draped on later. He wore jeans, a light windbreaker and a baseball cap. Lifting the walkie-talkie, he spoke into it briefly, then clipped it at his belt, wrapping his arm back through the strap of the MAC-10.

  When he drew even with the warrior's position, Bolan sprang forward, shoving the Ka-bar into the guard's throat as he grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt. The guard made a feeble grab for the trigger of the MAC-10, staring into Bolan's eyes in openmouthed astonishment. Then died. Silently.

  Struggling with the man's weight, the Executioner pulled the corpse from view and covered it as best as he could with the surrounding foliage. He left the walkie-talkie on the dead man after shutting it off, knowing that the risk of carrying it and having it suddenly come to life and reveal his position far outweighed the benefit of the Intelligence he might gain concerning the other guards. He cleaned the knife carefully on the corpse's pants leg, then dropped it back in its sheath.

  Some of the men would be inside the beach house. Hunsaker would have it no other way. The man was out of his depth and was smart enough to know it. But there was nowhere for the attorney to turn for help because he wouldn't know exactly what the investigation at the marina had turned up.

  Bolan could feel the passage of time, too, because he was just as unaware how much the law enforcement people had been able to find out. He'd been lucky. The woman he'd confiscated from the police had been intelligent and curious. Most of the people left aboard the yacht would be waiting on attorneys or hoping to cut deals with the DA's office. That would serve to buy some time, but how much, he didn't know. Everybody had seemed involved with the bust tonight.

  An image of the female DEA agent's face as she reached for the dead biker flickered through his mind. There was something else about the operation that was off, as well. Something that had intersected the violence at the marina but hadn't truly been a part of it. How much time would that add or subtract?

  He moved quietly, taking the baseball cap from the dead man and closing his circle.

  At least two men inside, armed as the outside guard had been, and a few more outside. Not many, he was sure, because Hunsaker wouldn't want to draw attention to his activities at the moment.

  Unleathering the 93-R, he sprinted the remaining distance to the back of the beach house, knowing he would be highly visible once he reached those white walls. The numbers kept pace with him, dropping through his mind as he plowed through the unsure sand.

  Autofire burst the silence, chopping into the wet sand with meaty smacks.

  Bolan dropped, skidding behind a thick palm tree as he reached into the military webbing at his waist. His fingers found the spherical outline of a M1SAR grenade as he searched for the shooter.

  Hoarse shouts pealed from the beach house, and the lights died in the different rooms unevenly one by one.

  Leaves and branches dropped from the tree, showering Bolan's shoulders as he raised himself up long enough to hurl the grenade in the direction of the muzzle-flashes. He shielded his eyes from the resulting flash, taking time to glance at the beach house.

  The explosion rocketed through the palms, giving vent to even more shouts from the dwelling.

  Glancing back in the direction he'd thrown the MISAR, the Executio
ner saw the crumpled outlines of a corpse against the whiteness of the sand. Patches of flame clung to the clothing.

  Satisfied the man was dead, Bolan gave the immediate area a quick recon, tracking the 9 mm in his hand as he reached for another grenade. Nothing moved. Getting to his feet, he hurled the smoker through the plate glass window with enough force to spin it past the heavy curtains and left his position just as a hail of bullets thunked into the tree trunk where he'd been standing.

  He triggered a 3-round burst at the plate glass window, focusing on the muzzle-flashes. Broken glass spun like diamond chips from the window. The automatic weapon disappeared back inside immediately.

  Someone yelled, "Grenade!" Then there was the muffled whump of the smoker's explosion.

  Slamming into the back of the house, Bolan shot the door lock out then kicked the door open. The bolts shrilled as they ripped free of the door frame.

  Sporadic gunfire from the front of the beach house spilled more glass from the shattered window. "Stop shooting till you find out where the bastard is!" a man's voice yelled.

  "I can't get Mike or Louis on the radio," another voice announced. "They must've already took them out."

  Bolan followed the door inside, the tiredness forgotten as he anted up for the game. He traded the Beretta for the high-powered velocity of the Desert Eagle.

  Smoke trailed from the forward rooms, climbing snakelike for the stucco ceiling, a lighter, moving darkness against the night trapped inside the beach house. An arm emerged out of the smoke, pursued by a choking voice and another arm cradling a MAC-10.

  Dropping the heavy .44 into target acquisition, Bolan waited till he could make out the man's features, not wanting to take out Hunsaker by accident. He'd invested too much time in tracking the man down to lose him so quickly. Somebody like the attorney would more than likely keep records of the things he was involved in to make sure no one cut him out of his fair share. And as protection from those he used as well as from those who found a use for his services.

  The big Magnum boomed in the narrow confines of the hallway, dimming the warrior's hearing for a time. The bearded man holding the MAC-10 staggered backward as the muzzle raked autofire into the wall. White plaster dust stained the smoke and settled on the corpse slumped against the wall.

  The Executioner swung around the corner of the hallway, covering the immediate area with the Desert Eagle. Flickering images from a television screen in the living room threw wavering shadows over the ceramic walls of the kitchen separating him from the other room.

  "There's somebody in the house, Mr. Hunsaker," a man said.

  His ears still ringing from the exchange of shots inside the beach house, Bolan searched for the speaker, his eyes burning from the smoke residue and cordite.

  A whirl of movement defined a shape at the doorway leading to the living room only an instant before autofire ripped through the hollow silence in the house and bullets reduced the refrigerator in front of Bolan to white enameled junk.

  Recoiling from the autofire, the Executioner waited till the shooter exhausted his clip, then stepped back around the doorway, aiming at a spot on the left wall that he judged to be chest high. The .44 jumped in his hands as he squeezed out the remaining rounds of the clip, keeping them confined to an area he could have covered with a piece of typing paper.

  A heavy bulk sprawled forward and lay still.

  After he dropped the empty magazine to the tiled floor, Bolan slammed a fresh one home, snapping the slide to chamber the first round.

  He paused to listen, to let his senses and instinct inform him of the next move he needed to make. He inched forward, letting the Desert Eagle point the way.

  Stepping over the dead man sprawled on the expensive shag carpet, he found the living room empty and the front door waving in the breeze. The telephone on the end of a small rolltop desk rang, piercing the cotton that filled his ears. Disregarding it, he hurried over to the door and glanced out over the manicured landscaping that had converted so easily to a battle zone. He felt a fleeting moment of regret as he observed the carnage left by the grenade, reflecting that this place of beauty would never hold the same memories for anyone on the beach again, knowing it would serve as a house of horrors for a time before the rumors grew and the pain passed. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make this section of the beachfront resemble a garden of Eden, then got a bad break when he made a deal with a snake like Hunsaker.

  A moving flash of white among the palms flared into the periphery of Bolan's vision. He realized the attorney hadn't chosen a car or the yacht for his escape.

  Propelling himself away from the door, he leaped off the wooden porch and threw himself into pursuit.

  The palm trees became a maze once he hit the foliage line. Branches whipped at him, stinging his face. He searched for the whiteness of the man's clothing, his hearing still blunted and almost useless from the gunfire and against the noises he made himself. Where? The man couldn't get away.

  The flatness of the ground inclined sharply and without warning. He almost fell, dragging his free hand across the wet sand as he struggled to maintain his balance. There was a sharp crack, and something clipped a branch from the brush in front of him.

  He let himself go with the pull of gravity. His chest hit the wet sand as both hands locked on the Desert Eagle in front of him. Letting his breath out slowly, ignoring the anxious thumping of his heart as his lungs demanded more oxygen, he scanned the dark hill, trying to find Hunsaker's silhouette against the palms and brush. Was the man waiting, or had it only been a delaying shot that had come uncomfortably close?

  He rolled, coming to a rest behind a palm trunk as he forced himself to his feet. No movement followed him. Hunsaker was still running.

  He stumbled over a gnarled root as he clambered to the top of the incline. When he reached the crest, he dropped to one knee and swept his eyes and the muzzle of the Desert Eagle across the down slope.

  The landscaping ended here, and a smattering of palm trees fought cypress trees for territorial rights.

  The air felt cool, biting as he drew it in.

  Hunsaker was halfway down, half running and half sliding, heading toward a tilted, weather-gray building. Dulled ruby reflections gleamed from the taillights of a vehicle parked inside.

  Bolan broke cover, breaking into a zigzag that carried him safely down the treacherous slope, closing the distance between himself and the attorney, knowing he would be too late to keep Hunsaker from getting inside the building.

  Without warning, operating on some instinctive sense, Hunsaker turned for an instant and thrust the barrel of his pistol in his pursuer's direction.

  The Executioner followed the line of movement, sprawling forward in an effort to get below the wildly placed shots. The bullets smacked into the wet ground and bit into the trees. The Desert Eagle was out before him, tracking the fleeing man's chest. His finger hovered a heartbeat over death.

  Then he heard the dry snap of Hunsaker's revolver as it pumped empty.

  Rising to his feet, Bolan saw his quarry toss the pistol to one side and swing himself around the corner of the building. He ran, half stumbling down the incline as he took too-big steps and hit the loose surface in jarring thumps.

  The motor of the hidden vehicle caught just as the Executioner gained level ground. A pulsebeat later, a 4×4 Ram Charger exploded through the loosely hinged double doors with a snarling of its powerful engine.

  Coming to a stop, Bolan swiveled the big .44 up to steady his hands in a Weaver's grip. He sighted, released his breath halfway and held his aim.

  The immense 4×4 inscribed a quarter circle in the loose turf, sending sand showers over the nearby foliage. The rpm increased as it rocked to an unsteady halt, squarely facing Bolan. Hunsaker's shadow jerked inside the cab, fighting for control of the wheel.

  Bolan squeezed the trigger, aiming for the tires as the big metal monster bore down on him, feeling the Magnum buck in his hands as he stood his ground.
Even if he punctured the radiator, the 4×4 wouldn't stop. There would be enough life left in the vehicle to take it at least to the highway long minutes ahead of the Executioner, making escape possible if not probable.

  Finishing off the magazine as the Ram Charger fishtailed toward him, Bolan dived to one side, pushing off the truck's hood as he arced his body for distance. Both front tires had deflated as a result of his marksmanship in the uncertain moonlight, but would it be enough?

  He hit the ground on his back, grateful for the sand's cushioning effect, and rolled to his feet as the 4×4 charged into the underbrush to slam into a broad-based palm tree. He slid a fresh magazine into the butt of the Desert Eagle as he moved forward.

  The hiss of the vehicle's smashed radiator filled the night air, exciting the crickets and night birds. One of the front wheels was off the ground and spun lazily.

  Following the .44's lead, Bolan stepped to the side of the Ram Charger, hoping Hunsaker was still alive. Things on the Miami end of the operation were getting too hot to let him remain operative in the area. Yet he couldn't be sure the new pipeline from Colombia would be effectively closed down without talking to the attorney first. He'd taken some big steps in that direction tonight, and he wasn't going to remove himself from the picture till he could be sure.

  Hunsaker was moaning, slumped over the steering wheel. A cut over one eye was leaking slow drops of dark blood, staining the white turtleneck in patterns that differed from the mud and brush stains accumulated there.

  The door was jammed from the impact, and Bolan had to yank on it twice to open it. Reluctantly it gave with a shrill screech that mingled with the sputtering of the dying radiator.

  Bolan nudged the attorney with the heated barrel of the Desert Eagle. "Out of the truck, Hunsaker. Hands behind your head. You may not remember all the details, but you've associated with the law long enough that some of it should have rubbed off."