"Only then everybody was wanting to get rich overnight."
"Yeah."
"So, we're only guessing our guy is interested in the Corsinis?"
"Judson's been at the head of other probes into the Corsini Family. If the DEA is mounting another tilt at the Corsini windmill, Judson would be the logical choice."
"Even though he hasn't pinned anything on them before?"
"He hasn't succeeded in getting any dirt on the Corsini Family personally, Striker, but that doesn't mean he hasn't put together some effective operations against them. Usually his undercover operations stop somewhere in what is assumed to be middle management for the Corsinis. He's cost them some along the way, and they know it."
"What could interest the Corsini Family in cocaine from Miami?" Bolan asked.
"That I don't know."
Bolan let it spin around in his head, dealing cards out for the players who were sure to be involved. Judson and his DEA team on one side. The Corsini Family on another. The Miami connection scanned as background for the events so far, but it was yet to be seen where the final action would take place. Maybe Toronto, and the Death's Enforcers acted as the bridge between… yeah, but how many places did that bridge extend? Also, the biker gang had to evacuate the area with an APB out on them. If Judson did have a guy undercover in the ranks of the bikers, the federal agent must have been able to ensure them safe passage back to Toronto. Then there was the uncertainty about how many of the local cops were willing to let the bust slide by.
"How do the bikers connect up with the Corsini Family?" Bolan asked.
The conversations around him had picked up again, sounding like a dull roar.
"Through Vincent Corsini," Brognola replied. "Salvatore Corsini, the old man of the family, has been strictly small-time his entire career. Kept his finger in small pies in the Toronto area — gambling, girls, clubs and passed out a few contract executions over the years. He started to blossom a bit after the Commisso Family went belly-up to an investigation by the Mounties, but he still doesn't deal in drugs."
"Then where's the connection, Hal?"
"My Bureau buddy suggested Vincent, the son. Sal Corsini has held true to one maxim his whole adult life — live big but be small potatoes. Apparently Vincent doesn't want to live his life in the shadow of his father. Another source, questioned discreetly without being told about the Miami involvement, tied Vincent Corsini to the Death's Enforcers. According to the lady DA I talked to in Fredericton, Corsini the younger is suspected of working deals through the bikers. Contracting hits, extortion and intimidation and maybe drugs."
"But it's not solid?"
"If it was, the Toronto people would have closed house on Vincent Corsini before now. People who know things about Vincent Corsini's illegal business interests have turned up dead and missing when it came time to make a statement. From what the lady told me, Corsini is an animal. Nothing like his father, who still comports himself like an old-world gentleman."
"Read, Mafia."
"Exactly, Striker. Vincent Corsini is dangerous. A volatile man who's rumored to handle most of his own hatchet work and to enjoy it."
"And Judson may have placed his man in the middle of this with nowhere to go."
"Maybe." Brognola sighed. "Damn it, Striker, I read it the same way you do. Judson's just the type to try putting a guy in that deep, too. He's approaching mandatory retirement. This investigation could be his last chance at the brass ring as a DEA agent. He's the kind of guy who'd want to go out with a book contract, a movie deal and a hit album waiting in his near future."
"And whatever happened to the undercover guy would be just a tough break."
"Yeah."
"Hell of a guy the agency has working for them."
"Not everybody is like that."
"I know, Hal. I'm just tired, that's all." But that wasn't all, and Bolan didn't try fooling himself. He knew what it was like to be on the run, unable to trust anyone, living each movement and every moment in the fear that somehow it might reveal who he was. Even the arm's-length life-style he had agreed to with the Justice Department had placed him only a heartbeat away from the fugitive range. Judson had been on whatever operation he was supervising for six to eight months. Perhaps longer. Bolan felt confident in assuming the undercover man had been deep at least that long. Six to eight months. God, he could still remember what it had been like during the early days of his war against the Mafia, constantly on the run with no friendly hand in sight and no safe harbor to retreat to. But he had been accustomed to that. He'd exchanged a thick green jungle for a concrete one, exchanged fighting an outside battle against the laws of nature for one against the laws of man. You couldn't stay civilized in the jungle. Not if you were to survive. And you didn't remain unmarked by that jungle, either. How was Judson's operative scarred by his stay in the jungle he'd been thrown into?
Survival was something Mack Bolan had been good at for a long time. Those traits had been born in war in Vietnam and brought to maturity under the withering fire of criminals and terrorists around the globe. Somewhere in there, he knew, those wars had become the driving force of the man.
It wasn't that way for the guy Judson had ordered down into the trenches of the Death's Enforcers.
That guy still had a lot to lose.
With the deaths of his family, Sergeant Mack Bolan had enlisted in a war to save humanity from the criminals. He'd been around long enough to know it would be a long engagement. And he was drawn to it like a moth to a flame because it gave a sense to his losses. Because he could do it and couldn't step away from the duty he found there.
Judson's man was good. Otherwise he wouldn't have lasted as long as he apparently had. But how much longer would the man be able to survive the high-stakes game he found himself in?
"Striker?"
"Yeah, Hal."
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, just involved in sorting this thing out."
Brognola was quiet for a moment. "You're not coming out of this, are you?"
"Not yet."
"I wish you'd reconsider that."
"I have. Something doesn't scan right here. There's a lot of pressure on this operation. I can feel it. This thing isn't just going to break, Hal. It's going to come apart at the seams. A lot of good people could get hurt when it does."
"I know."
"What have you got for me on the guy's partner?"
"Piper Silverman is a stand-up lady and a decent operative. She's been with the DEA for the last four years. She was a uniform for the NYPD before that. College degree. My contact also let me know this operation is her first shot at being involved with an undercover in a supervisory capacity."
"She's overseeing an undercover?"
"Yeah."
"Did you get a name?"
"No. You can only press a casual friendship so far without inciting suspicion. The DEA are a cagey bunch and tend to have long memories. They have to for the kind of work they do."
Translated, that meant Brognola couldn't afford to be dragged into the situation if things in Miami overheated and blew up in the Executioner's face. Bolan knew the head Fed was uncomfortable with having to even come that close to defining the almost one-way relationship the government had with the Executioner. To Bolan, though, it was business as usual.
Bolan said, "I understand, Hal."
"I was afraid you would. Damn it, Mack, you know I hate drawing lines around anything you involve yourself in, but we don't even know if this one will pay off for anyone. Too many people are already involved. I don't want to see you get burned."
Bolan smiled grimly, putting warmth in his voice. "I don't, either."
"Give me some time," Brognola said. "I've got Aaron getting a package together for one Michael Belasko, who works for the Justice Department. We can stonewall questions long enough to get you in and out, provide a background that will stand up to a surface scrutiny."
Bolan watched the desk sergeant rub his eyes tiredly, saw
the man track across the room again and focus on the briefcase in his hand for a moment. He knew he'd been on the phone too long. Even a handful of the reporters were starting to feel their jaded curiosity kick to life; the full frontal stares were shifting to surreptitious glances. "I don't think the situation has the time to give."
Brognola fell silent.
Bolan knew the man was filled with bleak thoughts of his own but didn't let them touch him. The Executioner lived on the edge of life, and the Fed knew that. Brognola had the mission to look at, the planning, the objectives. Bolan focused on the numbers and kicked his plays into operation between heartbeats.
"If there's anything I can do, Striker…"
"Can you get me a plane on standby? I have the feeling this thing is going to go international before it runs its course."
"That I can do. I'll set up a private charter in the Belasko name, since the Bear is already plugging that into the computers."
"Chances are, I'll need clearance to land in Toronto, too."
"I'll take care of it."
"Thanks, Hal."
"Stay in touch, big guy."
Bolan said he would, then broke the connection and drifted back through the glass door to the balmy world under the fast-approaching dawn.
* * *
Almost twenty minutes later, Bolan saw Piper Silverman leaving the police station. Most of the news teams had vacated the street, leaving only a few die-hard newspaper reporters and people not directly involved with the electronic media. Bolan had learned most of that from monitoring the conversations of the men and women who'd visited the small cafe across the street from the police station.
When he saw the DEA agent walk down the steps, he took his cowboy hat from the booth he'd occupied since leaving the police station, slipped it on his head and trailed behind the woman on the opposite side of the street.
Carrying the briefcase made him feel awkward and exposed as he walked down the sidewalk, one among the day's early risers. The coffee he'd had while at the diner helped him stay awake but also made him feel hollowed out and drained. He needed rest but couldn't stop pushing himself until he found out where the trail he was pursuing led.
The whole situation was a mass of loose ends and had a pervasive sensation of falseness. Maybe if the local vice cops had made a bigger score at the marina, it wouldn't have been so glaringly obvious to him.
He moved loosely and easily, distancing the woman's long stride so that he continued to trail slightly behind her. He regretted the selection of cowboy boots as he moved in her wake. The soles spanged against the wet concrete, and he was sure if Silverman hadn't had her mind occupied elsewhere, she would have heard him.
He crossed the street when he saw her reach into her purse and come to a halt beside a late-model Ford sedan with rental plates. A cab whizzed by him, the horn raucously honking the driver's frustration with the narrow miss. He felt water splash across the back of his jeans.
Silverman looked up as the horn sounded, noting his straightforward approach at once.
He saw the puzzlement on her face. Then recognition sparked in her eyes. She reached under her raincoat.
Before she could bring her gun into view, Bolan had the 93-R in his hand and said, "Leave it there."
Her hand froze, but he could see in her dark eyes that her first impulse was to go for the weapon.
He closed the distance and held his hand out. "Put it in the briefcase, Silverman."
"Who the hell are you?" she asked.
A sensation batted at the periphery of Bolan's nervous system. An itch between his shoulder blades turned into an icy breath along his spine. Someone had to be watching them. He peered over the woman's shoulders, seeking an answer. "A friend," he replied as she closed her pistol in the briefcase.
Her voice dripped venom. "My friends don't point guns at me."
"I didn't say I was your friend," Bolan told her. "Get in the car." He glanced back up the street, searching for the unseen eyes. Someone was there, watching for him or the woman.
Silverman didn't move. "You're crazy if you think I'm getting in that car with you. I'd rather take my chances out here on the street. One scream from me, and you won't see anything but blue uniforms on the backs of big cops who're pissed off because they stayed up most of the night for nothing."
Bolan slid the Beretta back under the bomber jacket. He opened the door. "We need to talk."
"We can talk here."
"No, we can't."
"You pulled a gun on me," she said angrily. "How the hell do you expect me to trust you enough to go somewhere with you?"
"I pulled the gun because you would have pulled yours if I hadn't." Bolan tossed the briefcase into the back seat. There. A shadow next to the maroon van. He scanned his memory. How long had the van been there? "And because we don't have time to discuss this on the street."
"How do I know you won't put that gun to my head the minute we leave here and pull the trigger?"
Bolan kept an eye on the van as he moved in closer. He shielded the Beretta from sight and from any attempt the DEA agent might make to take it from him. "I saved your ass earlier. Why would I shoot you now?"
"You also told me your name was Belasko."
Bolan faced her squarely. "Look, Silverman, I'm not here because I want anything from you. I've put most of this thing together already, but I need some confirmation on a few details. I know you and Judson are from New York and are working on a Canadian operation. I also know you people have put an undercover agent into the Death's Enforcers. What I need to find out is how badly this operation is screwed up and if there's anything I can do to help salvage it."
Silverman slid into the car without another word.
Bolan followed, watching as dark shadows skated across the undersurface of the van's windshield. The cold itch between his shoulder blades disappeared when he identified the source. Now if he just knew the who and the why. "Give me the keys."
The woman complied. "Why can't we talk here?"
Bolan turned the ignition on. "Because we have company." He dropped the transmission into reverse and eased out into the sparse morning traffic, switching on the lights as he did.
From the rearview mirror he saw the van follow suit. Something bright and hard glimmered behind the vehicle's windshield.
"The van?" Silverman asked without turning around.
"Yeah. Do you know it?"
"I noticed it when I passed by."
"It's been there for over an hour."
"You say that as if you've been in the neighborhood for a while, too."
"I have."
Bolan worked his way into the thread of traffic, carefully not losing their pursuers, yet at the same time managing to create difficult circumstances for the driver of the van to close the distance if he or she became inclined.
"Somehow," Silverman said, "that doesn't surprise me."
"That you're being followed?"
"No. That you'd been in the neighborhood. There's an APB out on you. Did you know that?"
"Yes." Bolan flipped through the mental maps he'd made of this part of Miami, choosing a long, slow route that would take them by Vizcaya, the sixteenth-century-style Italian Renaissance palace that had been built for James Deering between 1914 and 1916. Vizcaya was now the Dade County Art Museum, but the Executioner didn't intend to go that far. The route would allow some privacy while he spoke to the DEA agent and tried to find out who was following her.
"And how do you know the van is following me? You're one of this burgh's hottest mystery men. From what I hear, you don't have a lot of friends in Miami right now. The local chapter of the Outlaws is looking for you. Duncan's business associates would probably like to know who you are. The Miami PD has more than a few questions they'd like answered. And there may be more."
"I don't have a lot of time for chitchat, Silverman."
"Neither do I. Even less time for someone to kidnap me at gunpoint and take me away from my job."
"I want to see if we can come up with some kind of deal."
"No deals." The woman was adamant. "Evidently you've got some knowledge of what I'm working on, but I haven't even got an angle for you."
"That's because I'm working my own angle," Bolan replied. "I was shutting down the cocaine pipeline when I came across your operation."
"That's bullshit, guy. Judson got clearance from every agency working the Miami end of things. We knew all the players, and you aren't one of them."
"Yeah, well, I was an undeclared entry."
"Who are you working for?"
Bolan smiled. "Myself. This pipeline was a private project. I'm not here exactly with blessings from the law enforcement people."
Silverman looked as if she wanted to ask more questions, then shook her head. "Look, I don't give a damn who you're with or what your story is. I'm not going to let you jeopardize the lives of my team."
"Meaning the guy you got undercover with the Death's Enforcers?"
Silverman didn't say anything.
The van seemed content to drift along at a distance, and Bolan let it. "The guy's already in trouble, Silverman. Doesn't it strike you as odd that Duncan only carried enough cocaine aboard the Swift Tiger to fill the order for the bikers? Isn't that why your local law enforcement assistance has suddenly gone dry?"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, I do. I've been listening to a scanner most of the night. The locals are searching for the Death's Enforcers, and I can figure out for myself that they weren't thrilled with the leftovers you and Judson let them have at the marina. If they find the bikers, there's no telling what will happen to your undercover guy because, officially, he doesn't exist. You and Judson have painted the man into a corner. Unless you go public with the story. In which case you run the risk of getting him killed by the people he's running with."
She didn't respond but sat immobile, and Bolan studied her quietly, sensing the softness of her femininity in the early morning shadows and seeing the troubled emotions tug at her features. He kept the Ford's speed to within the limit, checking to see the van dogging them two car-lengths back.
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