"You think the Swift Tiger was offered up as bait?" the DEA agent asked a few moments later. Her voice had lost some of the hardness.
"Yes."
"But how?"
"I don't know the details, but I think somebody has made your guy and fed the information back to the Miami end that something may have been sour with the deal."
"Then why go through with it?"
"Because it worked. One way or another, there's ten million dollars' worth of cocaine making its way to Toronto tonight. Your operative may be dead by now." Bolan watched his words bite into her, seeing her hands knot into white knuckled fists.
"You could be wrong, you know. Duncan's source may have just set up enough for the buy and not have known who the cocaine was meant for."
"He knew. He named the Corsini Family, but Intel I've managed to get my hands on since then suggests Vincent Corsini."
"Who are you working for, Belasko?" Silverman's voice seemed worn-out.
"Nobody. Like I said, I'm a free agent."
"A wild card." She gave him a bitter smile.
Bolan ignored it. "I came to you because I thought you might want to help salvage this thing before anyone else gets hurt."
"How do you think you can help if the law enforcement people in the immediate area can't find the Death's Enforcers?" She looked at him. "And you're right — there is a special group of vice agents looking for the bikers right now."
"Because I don't think it will end here. I also don't think you and Judson are going to be able to move fast enough from this end to cover your agent's ass when the shit hits the fan. Provided the guy manages to stay alive long enough to get back to Toronto and doesn't get killed or busted along the way."
"You're asking me to trust you with his life."
"I know." Bolan made his voice gentle.
She shook her head slowly. "I can't."
Bolan drifted through the traffic until he reached Collins Avenue, then started working his way back to the police station. "I'm going to leave that briefcase with you when I get out. It has a computer printout in it detailing the Miami pipeline and who the operators were. Check it over if you want, but the names probably won't make any connections for you. Give it to the local vice people. Hopefully they'll find it interesting enough to pull them off the witch-hunt they're working on now."
"This on the level?"
"Yes."
"How did you get it?"
"You don't want to know."
She appeared to consider that. "The vice people will want to know."
"Let them work it out for themselves — it'll take up more of their time. Just tell them it came from me."
"Do I give them a name?"
"No."
"What if they don't believe me?"
"Tell them the biker I took from the Outlaws club is handcuffed and gagged at a boat house in the marina." He gave her the address. "And that they can find Hunsaker dead at his beach house. They'll believe you."
"You killed Hunsaker?"
Bolan nodded. "There's a lot of ragged edges on this one, Silverman, because of the deal your boy cut for Corsini. But the negligible loss Duncan would have suffered at the hands of the vice people leads me to believe you people have an inside man in your operation. Either that or Corsini was in communication with Hunsaker, which is a possibility. Which means if your operative hasn't been compromised and doesn't have dirty hands, he's running for his life right now."
The light from the instrument panel showed the effect his words had on her, underscoring the feelings she tried in vain to keep hidden.
Sudden movement in the rearview mirror drew Bolan's attention. He had just turned off Collins Avenue and was making his way back to the police station and the rental. When he glanced up, he saw the van roaring up on them, the wicked barrel of an automatic rifle poking through the open panel door. He slipped a hand behind Silverman's head and yelled "Down!" as the first bullets ripped into the rear window.
9
Glass imploded from the back window of the Ford and scattered over the seat. Bolan locked the brakes as he reached under his jacket for the Beretta.
The van slid by, autofire still hammering from the open panel door in a bright yellow-and-orange blaze.
The few people on the sidewalks surrounding the street came to a frozen halt. An approaching Miami Herald news truck narrowly missed colliding with the passing van as the driver jackknifed the rig to a skidding stop that blocked both lanes.
Rubber burned from the van's tires as the driver fought to regain control of his forward momentum. The rear of the vehicle slewed to one side, then the other, keeping the gunner off balance.
Bolan fought the wheel, releasing the brake as he fed power to the wheels. The Ford threatened to turn sideways for a moment, then fell back into line when he steered into the slide, surging up behind the van.
When the aggressors tried to turn a corner, Bolan cut to the inside and slammed Silverman's car into the van's side, forcing it to swing wide of the turn. Metal shrieked and screeched when the car hit, then crumpled when the van collided with a streetlight. The lamp winked out instantly.
Before the car could finish rocking, the Executioner was on the move, bringing the 93-R to bear as he advanced.
The gunner stood, framed in the warped opening of the panel door on the side, bringing his weapon up.
Bolan removed the man with two 3-round bursts from the 9 mm and ran across the hood of the Ford into the van's interior. The driver was slumped across the steering wheel, his face torn and bloody from impacting against the starred windshield.
Kneeling, Bolan took the man's pulse, finding it thready and weak. He peeled back the eyelids and found mismatched dilations of the pupils, signaling some kind of definite brain injury.
The van rocked as it took on weight.
Bolan glanced over his shoulder and saw Silverman coming through the side door holding her pistol in a Weaver's grip. Her face looked flushed, and tears of blood wept down her jaw from a small cut on her temple. Slipping the Beretta back into his shoulder holster, Bolan asked, "Are you all right?"
"Get your hands up, mister." She held the pistol centered on his chest.
Bolan sighed, halting all movement to look at her. "I don't have time for this, Silverman. In fact, we don't have time for it. The Miami PD is going to be here within minutes, and I don't intend to stick around for the head count."
"You're going to stay right here," she said.
Bolan pulled the unconscious driver from the seat and took his wallet. He was aware that the DEA agent's pistol tracked him. He opened the wallet. "This is twice I've saved your life tonight, Silverman. What's it going to take to convince you we're on the same side?"
"A lot more than you've shown me so far. It's not your actions I'm questioning. It's your motivation. You killed Duncan and you say you killed that guy, Hunsaker, in an attempt to close down the cocaine pipeline in the area. That's not my problem. But I do know you might have done the same thing if you're working for another local marketing group intending to take over the area."
The wallet contained almost two hundred dollars in small bills, rental papers for the van and a driver's license. He closed it in disgust, taking in the expensive clothing both men wore. The assault rifle lying across the dead man's chest was an AK-47. Expended shells, scattered across the carpeted interior of the van, gleamed brightly in the light from the dashboard.
"If that was true," Bolan said in answer to her statement, "why would I try to contact you?"
"Because I'm not local talent. You could make contact with me, drop off those papers you say you have and let me make the delivery. If they're good, which they probably are, the vice squad in Miami could finish up the job you started. Then, once I left, you could step out of wherever you'd be hiding and slide right into control."
"Very logical thinking, Silverman," Bolan said. "And just as wrong as it is logical."
Removing the dead man's wallet, he found more cash
in small bills and a driver's license and ID. Silverman moved back, keeping her pistol leveled at him. Over her shoulder he could see the crowd that had begun to gather. The only thing missing was the sound of sirens. And he was sure that wouldn't be long. He dropped the wallet on the dead man's chest.
"When the crime unit gets here," Bolan said calmly, "I'd suggest having these two men fingerprinted. Both of them are carrying cash and no credit cards."
"They have ID. I saw you look at it."
"No credit cards," Bolan repeated. "This is a plastic society we're living in now, Silverman. How many people do you know who don't at least have a gas card of some kind? Also, the driver has the rental papers for this van in his wallet. It's filled out to the name on his driver's license, but he in cash. Again, no credit card. I figure these two men hi out-of-town talent who were lined up for the express purpose of taking you out of the picture."
"Me?"
"Yeah. 1 passed them twice before you walked out. They weren't lying in wait for me. It was you they wanted. If they hail from Toronto or other places farther north, I'd say you've got even more evidence that your operation has been compromised."
"But why me?"
"To protect somebody," Bolan assured her. "You can make book on that. Who it is depends on how badly your investigation was compromised and by who."
Her face was a study of indecision in the shadows of the van. Bolan could smell the blood and the leaking radiator fluid that became intertwined in the small world they shared and wondered if she was aware of it. For a moment he knew the woman might lean either way. The bore of the 10 mm automatic she fisted never wavered.
"Damn you, Belasko," she said tightly. "Damn you, if I've made the wrong choice." She lowered the S&W's hammer.
"You haven't," he assured her as he passed through the doorway.
"It would make me feel better if I could connect you up with one agency or another."
"I know, but then my security might be as leaky as yours. I learned a long time ago that I operate best and fastest when I'm alone."
"You've been undercover?"
"For a long time."
"Then you know what he's up against."
"The man Judson and you have in with the Enforcers?"
She nodded and leathered the pistol.
"I know."
"I'm going to be dogging your footsteps, Belasko or whatever your name is, and if you cause him to get hurt, I promise you that you'll be able to look over your shoulder one of these days and see me there."
"I believe you." Bolan retreated to the rented Ford and palmed Silverman's DEA badge from her purse, which lay on the floorboard, covering the theft with the recovery of the briefcase. The shield seemed heavy in his pocket when he turned to hand her the briefcase. It wasn't much in the way of official ID but it might be enough to let him pass inspection for a time while he entered the eye of the storm he was tracking. He'd operated on a lot less.
When Silverman took the briefcase, he noticed that none of the indecision was gone from her features.
"It'll work out," he told her, knowing she wouldn't believe him but feeling the need to tell her just the same.
"Yeah, let's hope so."
The sudden keening of a police siren tugged at the frail truce Bolan had declared with the woman, and he could see reconsideration flicker in her eyes. "Take care of yourself," he said. Then he moved back into the shadows as the crowd parted before him. Questions from the onlookers pursued him, but his mind was filled with questions of his own.
Did somebody try to kill Silverman because she was too close to the situation? Because she knew more than she was supposed to? And, if that was the case, was she aware of what she knew?
Bolan didn't think so. His reflection looked gray and two-dimensional in the dark glass of the department store windows lining the sidewalk, then seemed to play hide-and-seek as he moved between street lamps.
Someone had definitely compromised the operation Judson was supervising, and Silverman had, perhaps unwittingly, become dangerous. Who and why still eluded him even in conjecture. What if the undercover agent had turned rogue? That could explain some of it. The man had evidently had his own route figured for getting out of the Miami area, but the puzzle was why hadn't Judson or Silverman known of it? And obviously the DEA team didn't know where the man or the Enforcers were. Otherwise they would be tagging along and not cooling their heels in a Miami police station, waiting to see what went wrong next.
It seemed doubtful that the cocaine or the Enforcers were still anywhere around Miami. But he couldn't leave before he was sure. The trail might be cold, but at least it was still a trail. There might be nothing waiting for him in Toronto if Vincent Corsini was ultimately in control of the events taking place in Miami.
There were a lot of ways to call this one, Bolan realized as he dropped the cowboy hat he'd taken from the Ford into a trash can in the alley he turned into. And maybe a lot of the wrong calls had already been made.
* * *
The Cessna shuddered in flight.
Rye Thornton glanced at the pilot, feeling his stomach lurch threateningly. "Are you going to make it, Wings?"
The other man gave him a crooked grin that looked forced. "It hurts like hell, bro', but I been through worse and lived to tell about it." He kept one hand on the controls, sucking at a reefer with the other.
Thornton had gotten a small high from passive smoking earlier and still felt twinges of it numbing his mind. But it wasn't enough to deaden the sharp ache of the memories he couldn't remember or the mental uncertainty that told him he wasn't quite sure who he was.
The flight had been long and mostly silent, with breaks only when Wings had sat the Cessna down at the backwoods refueling stops he'd lined up for the return trip. The bullet holes on the side of the plane had drawn attention in Virginia, Thornton remembered, but the pilot had quickly covered them with a story about a farmer with a shotgun when he'd buzzed a farmhouse outside of Waycross.
He felt his name called from inside his mind. Closed his eyes to the dark sky surrounding them because something out there seemed to fire the dread in his memory. Book covers of King novels he'd read drifted across the scarlet screens on the back of his eyelids. He reached out for them, touched them. Felt touched back. The books. Something about the books. He'd shared them with Alice, enjoyed reading some of the really suspenseful parts of them to her.
Alice.
He dropped the name when he closed a mental fist over it because it burned. Like coals or an acetylene torch. Groped for it when he realized what he'd done, because he didn't want to lose it.
Gone. Only blankness fell into his grasp, blankness and the almost overwhelming guilt.
"Hey, Spider."
Thornton opened his eyes.
"You okay, man?"
Thornton struggled for something to say, having trouble even remembering the words.
"I mean, don't take it personal or nothin', but you sure as hell looked like you vegged out on me a little."
Thornton drew in a deep breath, sucking in the acrid odor of marijuana. "Yeah. Too long on the road, man. And I damn sure could have done without this last shit."
"Yeah."
Shifting in the seat, Thornton peered out the window, trying in vain to wipe off the condensation clouding the glass. It was still night, and even though they were flying at a low altitude, he couldn't recognize any of the landscape whipping by below. His muscles ached from the cramped posture he had to assume, and the shirt Wings had produced before the first refueling stop slid easily against the crusted section of T-shirt clinging to the bullet wound on his side. The pain had dulled, for the most part, leaving only occasional bouts of sharp agony. He guessed the reefer had helped some, but it could have been the pain of the incomplete memories that made the wound pale by comparison. He was sore but he was functional, and maybe even better off physically then he was mentally. The realization scared him, because it brought with it the fear that his control over hi
s mind was slipping.
Inside his head, a voice cautioned. The mind, Sonny, the mind is the keenest weapon you can ever take with you on one of these little outings. But it's up to you to keep it honed. If you don't, it'll work against you at times. Best piece of advice I could give anybody in this line of work.
Thornton struggled to identify the voice. Benny. Benny. Benny something. He was almost certain of it. But he couldn't pinpoint a specific memory, couldn't dredge up an image of the man. And what was the line of work Benny had been referring to?
It didn't have anything to do with his life among the Enforcers — or maybe it had everything to do with it.
Somewhere in there, he had failed somebody. Maybe several somebodies. Was that what he was afraid to face? Was that the force that kept his memory out to lunch?
"Hey. Rye."
The pilot had a concerned expression on his bearded face. He waved a fistful of fingers in front of Thornton's eyes.
"Hey, man. Are you okay?"
Thornton shook his head to clear the confusion away, if only momentarily. "Yeah, yeah. I'm just peachy." He put a hand to his forehead and felt the perspiration on his skin. He felt cold and clammy beneath the clothes. Sick and weak. But it wasn't all because of the wound. "Where are we?"
"Somewhere near Brantford. About ten miles off Lake Erie."
"Get over the lake."
Wings looked confused. "I thought we were goin' on into Toronto."
"We are. Just not in this plane."
"What do you mean?"
Thornton looked at the pilot. "I mean we're going to dump the plane in Lake Erie and find another way into Toronto."
"Hey, wait one damn minute, Spider. This ol' crate may not be much, but she and I go back a ways. She's been more faithful than any woman I ever had in my life."
Thornton put a hard edge in his voice. "She's going to have to be faithful enough to die for you, too, Wings, because we can't show up in Toronto with her."
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