"The way I see it," Judson said, "we have more of a problem with who Belasko really is than with what Thornton might or might not do. Thornton's a good cop. Committed. You can't just wake up one day from a wild-assed dream and decide to shelve an attitude like that for a get-rich-quick scheme. Know what I mean?"
Silverman nodded, meeting the man's gaze but locking her thoughts in. Maybe someone like Ryan Thornton wouldn't set aside a life and career for a dream like that, but what if he was chased screaming from it by a guilt-infested nightmare? She shivered from the cold trapped inside herself.
7
Falling rain formed a white-yellow cloud along the length of Rye Thornton's motorcycle headlight beam. He felt it on his face and arms, felt it vibrate into the chest and shoulders of his leather jacket. Usually he loved the rain, relished the terrible fury locked in those dark clouds, hung on every lightning-fast threat of it. He used to sit on the front porch expectantly, just watching the swirling clouds with…
His memory faded abruptly, darting away on quick-turning falcon's wings. Leaving him empty and cold despite the warm rain.
He fumbled for the name mentally but couldn't find it. Why? Why wasn't it there? The memory had seemed like such a gentle thing and had fallen into his consciousness so easily. Not like the nightmares that gave him headaches and woke him in the darkness with the feel of cold and clammy sweat all over his body.
He tilted his head up for a moment, closing his eyes as he opened his mouth and caught some of the falling rain on his tongue. The Harley rumbled between his legs, handling roughly now that they were on the dirt roads leading up to the pickup site.
A horn sounded a brief warning to his left. Two beeps a quarter-beat apart.
He looked back and swerved to miss the armadillo that had stopped in the middle of the muddy road. Its two fire-bright eyes flashed redly at him as he passed it, and he saw its blurred outlines scuttle toward the trees as the rider behind him topped the rise.
He did a quick head-count as the ragged line of Death's Enforcers spread out ahead and behind him. Nine men. The empty space left by Rattle was obvious to him even in the dark and filled with a silence that sucked away the ear-splitting grumble of the sleds.
Rattle.
Lot of memories with that guy. Not good memories, but ones he could still reach out and touch. Which, with the way his mind had been working lately, was something. Losing even a scab like Rattle left a void in his world now, and that didn't say a lot for the condition of his world.
Rattle's death wasn't just a lost path down memory lane. It also symbolized that an assault had been struck against his command, endangering his mission.
Thornton geared down to make an upcoming turn, flicking the shift lever and squeezing the clutch as though he'd been doing it every day of his life. He recoiled from the sudden thought. He had been doing it every day of his adult life, hadn't he? Before the Death's Enforcers there had been other gangs. Hell, he'd ridden with the Angels in L.A., went down some roads on his own. Him and a scooter. It had been that way as long as he could remember it, he reassured himself. Still, he wished the uncertainty would fade and that he could be more afraid of the cops who were sure to be looking for them instead of being afraid of what was locked inside his own head.
For a moment he wished the cops could catch them. Then it would be all over.
Wouldn't it?
The headache was beginning again, forming a throbbing spike that ran through his temples.
That was crazy thinking! He'd been inside before. Didn't need no more of that shit. Yeah, and it had been a hell of a long three months in… Where the hell had he been to prison? It didn't matter. Wherever. It had seemed like an eternity. Hadn't it?
He shifted uncomfortably on the seat, knowing the un-evenness of the dirt road was going to play hell with the headache. It was bad enough without the jarring and bumping. Harleys were made to fly, baby; the streets were the only sky they knew. His arms felt leaden from hanging on to the bars. The black leather gloves felt like another layer of skin soaking into the flesh.
What the hell had gone wrong at the marina? Rattle wasn't supposed to end up dead like that. Not even a scumbag like Rattle, who had a thing for fourteen-year-old chicks and hearing them scream. They were supposed to be protected.
Somebody had promised him that. That much he knew, even if he couldn't remember who it was.
The front tire skidded into a muddy rut, splashing out the rainwater as it twisted like a dying snake.
Thornton willed himself to become a part of the bike, becoming a live nerve wired to the big-hearted Harley, controlling it and seducing it at the same time. The scooter kept its head and didn't go down, the rear tire spinning threateningly before finding traction.
Once he had the direction leveled out again, he slipped a hand under the leather jacket to make sure the S&W 645 hadn't been lost along the way. There. Still in the shoulder leather. Feeling better, he gave himself over to the road and chased away the memories, confident they wouldn't be entirely lost. They came to haunt him whenever they chose, anyway.
The choice of words sent a shiver down his spine that was connected somehow to things he couldn't remember. He dodged the questions, knowing they would suck him inside himself again if he gave even one the chance.
Two hours east of Miami, using care to check for potential police roadblocks along the way, had found them at their current location on the fringes of the Everglades swampland. The way out had been his idea. Not Corsini's. He hadn't told the man that, hadn't told his band of men until they were fleeing the marina area. Only he and the pilot of the plane they were to meet knew about this rendezvous.
Thornton had learned a long time ago to never open himself up to complete inspection of his ways and plans by a potential enemy. And the younger Corsini definitely filled the bill in that respect. Vincent Corsini was skewed one hundred eighty degrees from his father. Sal was from the old school, knowing a proper way to do everything, demanding respect. Vincent, and you didn't call the guy Vince or Vinnie for damn sure, went after money in the quickest way possible, and if it wasn't proper, then tough shit. Respect was something he didn't care about, either. Because Vincent Corsini had learned fear was a much stronger motivator.
Where Sal had been a practitioner of form, his son found new schemes every day, and that was how Thornton had linked up with Vincent Corsini, shepherding ten million dollars' worth of cocaine back to Toronto for a down payment on one of Vincent's bigger deals behind his father's back. Of course, Vincent hadn't told Thornton even that much, but from being around the younger Corsini during the past six months, he'd learned some of the man's patterns.
A war of behind-the-scenes attrition was taking place in Toronto. And the son was ruthlessly planning to remove his father's power, piece by bloody piece, while the elder Corsini was restricted by form. Until his son made an overt threat toward him, Sal refused to take any real action. In the meantime Vincent was establishing himself as the new man to deal with.
Thornton pulled his scooter over and flagged down his lieutenant on the Miami run.
Skeeter Davis was a shaggy brute of a man, long and wolf lean astride the flathead. He put both booted feet down and walked himself on the bike forward as he came to a stop beside Thornton.
"Check it out, Spider," Skeeter said as they watched the stream of bikers pass by in single file. His beard split in a grin, and light reflected from his crooked teeth and the skull-and-crossbones earring mounted on his headband. "Two hours later, and we're still haulin' ass. We deserve a fuckin' bonus for pullin' this off for your Mafia pal."
"The bonus is going to be getting out of here alive, Skeeter."
Skeeter shook his head and laughed. "Don't get to be a downer, man. So they took Rattle out. Not that big of a loss, if you know what I mean? I mean, old Rattle, he was good for parties and bullshit, but he didn't exactly have it crankin' upstairs."
Thornton nodded. "Just the same, Skeeter, I want you to post Cra
zy Ron and Brokedick behind us at the next checkpoint. Have them stay there until they see the plane coming down."
"Brokedick ain't gonna like that, leader man. He's gonna figure you for tryin' to leave him behind."
"Tough shit, Skeeter. Tell the son of a bitch he'll do what 1 tell him to, or I'll bury him in this fuckin' swamp. You make sure he understands that."
"Okay, okay, I read you, guy. I'll make sure he stays myself."
"Hell, he may be the lucky one. Him and Crazy Ron both. If things get hairy and the dope fuzz is on top of the situation that we might have skipped in this direction instead of north, at least they'll have a running head start."
"One thing I wouldn't want to be a party to tonight," Skeeter said, "is a fuckin' swamp scramble in all this dark."
"It might come to that."
"Maybe. But I doubt it. You see, my man, I been keepin' an eye on you ever since you started running the club. I mean, you're no great shakes when it comes to cuttin' loose and lettin' your hair down, but you got this 'in' with Corsini and it's let us cut some pretty good deals for ourselves. Take this dope scam, for instance. We're making the buy using his money, bought us a fuckin' bunch of nose candy with it, then we're out here in the middle of nowheresville with a plane you set up for. I been thinkin' it'd be just as easy for us to aim that plane somewheres else besides Toronto at this point and live high on the hog for a while."
Making his voice cold, Thornton said, "You got any more thoughts like that in your system, Skeeter, you'd better leave them behind here. Talk like that will get you killed when we get back to Toronto."
Skeeter grinned. "It's just talk, Spider. Just talk. Chill it out, man. I don't know what's got you walkin' around all soft footed on this deal. We're puttin' it together. Just the way you said we would. We lost Rattle. It was a bad break. Coulda happened to anybody. But we're free and flying clear of this whole scene in just a few minutes. You got guts, Spider, and a whole shit-pot full of luck since I known you. I'd hate to see you pussy out now."
"You won't," Thornton promised as he dropped the shift lever into first and eased out the clutch. "Get Crazy Ron and Brokedick and do like I told you."
Skeeter gave him a mock salute and another grin.
Thornton put it behind him, wishing the sick feeling would leave his stomach, knowing that was sometimes the way it was and you had to trust those gut feelings in this kind of job.
Job.
The word ran cold water down his spine, and he tried to track down the cause for the feeling. It eluded him, leaving a scum-slick trail through his thoughts.
He twisted the throttle, accelerating dangerously across the potholed dirt road, aware that the Harley could be torn from under him at any time but not caring and not knowing why.
* * *
"There's the plane!" Moon yelled.
Thornton grimaced, looking in the direction the biker was pointing. "Pipe down," he ordered as he stepped forward and lifted his binoculars to his eyes. "For all you wild-asses know, that's a winged narc up there and his buddies are cruising the bushes for us now. Last thing we need to give them is a fuckin' sonar of our position."
The biker grumbled, then kept quiet.
Tracking the plane, Thornton saw that it was an amphibious Cessna of the same model he'd set up through his connection in Toronto. He felt better. At least the plans were okay even if the head wasn't.
The bikers shifted uneasily around him as the plane skidded on its pontoons in the small lagoon in front of them. Something irritated him from the back of his mind but he ignored it, figuring it was more of the strange memories that coiled inside his head.
Coming to a stop, the plane floated loosely on top of the swamp. The pilot stepped out on a pontoon and threw out an anchor.
Looking over the motley crew of eight men behind him, each with a bundle of cocaine strapped across his back, Thornton said, "Okay, let's move it. Keep it close and keep it simple. We aren't out of the woods yet."
"That's for fuckin' sure," someone grumbled.
"I still don't like the idea of leaving my scooter here," another one said. "Me and that hog been down some trails."
Thornton said, "You don't like it so much, Moose, then give me that pack and ride it back to Toronto." He held out a hand, waiting.
The big man grinned. "No fuckin' way, Spider. With the money we make off this gig, I'll buy me another."
"And love her just as much," Crazy Ron said.
The bikers all laughed.
Thornton shook his head at the craziness they displayed, wondering how the bikers could seem like misguided children at one minute and murderous brutes the next. Just as he'd been told. He wished he could remember who had told him that. But he'd known that anyway, hadn't he?
Thornton led the way into the swamp water, trying to keep his mind off what might be gliding through its depths only inches from his legs. It felt cold, and it seemed like the mud on the bottom was ninety percent glue.
Someone yelped, then cursed and asked for help because they'd lost a boot in the mud. Everybody laughed but nobody volunteered, and even the bootless biker didn't give it a second thought.
The itchy sensation at the base of Thornton's brain spread down his shoulders. He kept checking the banks of the swamp, waiting expectantly for police vehicles to explode into view at any time.
The water was up to his waist by the time he reached the plane. Cursing their slowness, the pilot extended a hand to help him up on the pontoon.
A buzzsaw kicked loose in Thornton's ear, muffling startled screams of astonishment as surely as the black swamp water below them would.
Ragged holes appeared across the pilot's legs, spilling the man into the murky depths under his plane.
Even as he threw himself sideways, Thornton was aware of a line of bullets chasing across the surface of the Cessna, chewing the metal to reach him. Something ripped across his upper chest, bringing a stinging pain that flooded his whole right side. Then he was slammed violently in the chest and felt his breath go out of him in a long cough. His head hit the plane, but it was only an incidental pain. Nothing compared to the tremendous impact that had knocked the wind out of his lungs.
He felt the swamp water close greasy fingers over his face.
His vision was stained by flotsam in the water, leaving dark specks scattered across the surface, illuminated by the running lights of the plane.
Water filled his ears, and he couldn't find his balance. Fingers trailed through the oozing mud as he realized he wasn't dying after all.
His lungs aching from the strain of holding his breath, he swam below the surface of the swamp. Back toward the shore. To safety.
Vibrations, carried by the water, touched him, made him aware someone was moving nearby.
A body touched him as he surfaced. The feel of wet hair caressed his cheek as the odor of gasoline and motor oil flooded his nostrils with a dozen other scents he couldn't identify. The air tasted cool. It hurt to breathe.
He stayed by the corpse, unable to keep from looking at the ruined face and recognizing it as Brokedick. He shivered, scanning back toward the Cessna, getting his bearings. He wondered how badly he was injured.
Two figures scrambled up the side of the plane. One was Skeeter, holding a mini-Uzi Thornton hadn't even known the man had. The other was a biker named Hooter, who had always been one of Skeeter's main hangers-on.
Thornton reached for his Smith, discovering that at least one of the bullets had hit it instead of him. He slid the .45 free, barely keeping his face out of the water, resisting the urge to spit when the brackish water slipped into his mouth.
"Get the rest of the coke," Skeeter ordered as he threw two packs into the interior of the plane. The pontoons rocked with the motion of the big man's movements, bobbing up and down in the water as the craft slowly eddied in a radius the length of the anchor line.
Slitting his eyes against the pain and the sudden glare of the flashlight Hooter shone across the surface of the swa
mp, Thornton pulled the hammer of the .45 back under the water. He thought it was soundless, but he couldn't be sure because the bass thumping in his head took away most of the exterior sounds.
Hooter cursed and tramped through the water, the flashlight's beam a jerky counterbalance to his movements. "Are you sure they're all dead?" the burly man asked.
A knife gleamed in Skeeter's fist as he cut the straps holding another parcel of the cocaine.
Thornton watched the body slide back under the dark water after Skeeter kicked it away. No more Moon. Roll call was getting shorter all the time. Only now it was being eaten away from the inside. Like a cancer. He locked his fingers around the butt of he Smith, wishing he still had all of the feeling in his extremities, hoping he was still gripping the pistol tightly enough. He continued to bring his arm up slowly, biting back the pain that ripped through his chest. He prayed that the .45 hadn't been damaged by the bullet that had caromed off it.
"If they aren't dead, Hooter, finish the job. I think I hear the pilot floppin' around on the other side of the plane, and I'll take care of him. Don't take any chances with any of this crew. Spider lined up a bunch of hardcases for this run. You can bet'cher ass if we leave any of them alive, they'll start lookin' for us as soon as they can walk."
Thornton gulped more air, willing himself to wait. They'd turn on you, Ryan — don't ever forget that. The words drifted through his mind like reefer fog, twisting and turning through a reality of their own. He tried to look behind the fog, tried to find the face of the voice that had told him that. An outline took shape. Then he felt his hand brush across someone else's in the darkness of the memory, felt his lips meet someone else's, his lungs dragged in someone else's ragged breath.
He recoiled, barely able to restrain a cry of pain, releasing a mewling sound that was covered over by a blast of autofire.
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