The pilot put both hands on the yoke. "You didn't say anything about dumpin' her when we set up this little run, Spider."
"I didn't say anything about almost getting put down by Skeeter and Hooter, either."
Wings continued on course stubbornly.
"Hey, man, I'm telling you right now that if we try to slip back into Pearson International or any of the other stops you know along the way, we're going to be drawing the attention of all the torpedoes Corsini will have out looking for us. We don't know what Skeeter told Vinnie about how we were getting back up here. We have to assume he gave Corsini the Cessna." Thornton paused, knowing how stubborn the bikers could be about their possessions. THE BIKERS. Why had he placed himself outside their ranks? Ryan Thornton was captain of the Death's Enforcers, Toronto chapter. And he was riding herd on a ten-million-dollar coke deal that had been totally screwed up. But he was going to walk away a winner, by God. No matter what kinds of memories haunted him. He massaged his temples, aware of the slow headache that had crept up on him.
"It ain't fair, Spider."
"Neither is dying, Wings, and that's surely what we're going to do if we try to take this bird home. Even those country airports you do business with might turn us in for the reward money Corsini will be offering for this shipment. Hell, half of them would probably rather put us down and take the coke and go into business for themselves."
Wings nodded. "Okay, Spider. We do it your way. But I want another plane."
"It'll come right off the top of the profits from this shindig, ace." He felt the Cessna tilt as Wings banked. "Can you fix it so the plane will hit the lake after we jump?"
"Yeah. That won't be a problem. The hard part's gonna be keepin' up with the coke once we start down. Don't want no flares or nothin' to mark the spot."
"If things break our way," Thornton said as he watched the black, ice color of Lake Erie drift into view, "Corsini will believe we went down in the water and our bodies got washed away in the undertow. Along with the coke."
"That'll break his fuckin' heart."
"It should also buy us some time."
Thornton took four parachutes from the rear of the plane and checked them quickly and expertly to make sure they were folded properly. He intended to use the extra one to make a bundle out of the cocaine. He looked up when he was finished and saw the pilot looking at him curiously.
"I didn't know you knew anything about chutes, Spider."
"There's a lot you don't know about me," Thornton said as he started bundling the packs of coke together. He felt his fingers tremble as he knotted the silk lines, trying to remember where he'd learned about packing parachutes. Hell, there was evidently a lot he didn't know about himself.
* * *
"Got some ID, buddy?" the big deputy asked.
Bolan palmed the DEA badge he'd taken from Piper Silverman's purse and flashed it. In the distance he could still see the ruby glow of receding taillights as a Florida Highway Patrol car moved ahead of him. "Where are the bodies?"
The deputy shifted his chew of tobacco to the other cheek, spit and hooked a thumb over his left shoulder. "'Bout a mile an' a half in. You can't miss it. There'll be this big buncha cops standin' in front of it."
Bolan grinned and put the borrowed badge away. "Got better things to do than keep the press out of the woods, deputy?"
The big man snorted. "Yessir. And better things to do than take you Yankee boys by the hand to make sure no gator don't bite your ass off when you're busy lookin' for clues." He spit again. "You get the notion to go explorin' in them woods, you be careful where you step. Them logs what's got eyes is gators. Be purely too late if you wait till they open their mouth to make sure."
"I'll keep that in mind, deputy."
"You do just that little thing."
Bolan took his foot off the brake and eased the car down the muddy path earlier vehicles had taken. He still wore the bomber jacket and jeans and figured he looked disheveled enough to play the part he'd chosen.
A handful of white disposable cups with coffee stains ringing them jerked and rolled on the floorboard in front of the passenger seat as he bounced over the uneven terrain. He wished he'd opted for a four-wheel-drive unit instead of the car, but it might have stood out too much. Being prepared might have been the motto of the Boy Scouts, but it didn't fit in with the actual way the DEA ran their business. Cost effectiveness said you rented cheap when you were in the field. And 4×4s weren't in that category.
He kept the police scanner under the passenger seat on as he moved toward the crime scene, listening to the deputies' efforts to contain the area and keep reporters away until everything was investigated and filed properly.
A premonition had come over him when he began tracking the reported sightings of the Death's Enforcers, bringing the chill of sudden death. Now, at the site where eight hikers' bodies had been discovered by an early morning fisherman less than an hour ago, he knew the feeling had proved out. One of the things that remained to be seen was whether the DEA undercover agent would be among the death toll.
He guided the rental to a stop under a cypress tree wreathed in Spanish moss and beside a 4×4 Bronco with Sheriff's Department markings on the doors and a light bar across the cab.
The ground felt loose and soft, sinking quickly under the heels of the cowboy boots. The muted conversations from different groups of various law enforcement people didn't penetrate the hush that lay over the swamp. He came to a halt under a gumbo-limbo tree and watched the three ambulances that were backed to the edge of the swamp water take on the dead. A thin attendant in stained whites finished zipping up a body bag and motioned for another man to help him lift it to an ambulance.
Bolan studied the swamp area. Death was a known component of the primitive Everglades because nature still ruled this section of the swamp with the same iron-fisted doctrine she had handed down a million years ago. But not this kind of death. Not a death that was dictated by killing for pleasure or greed instead of survival.
Pastel fingers of a rosy dawn were just now nudging aside the remnants of twilight but were unable to break the pall that lay over the swamp. Early-morning mist hugged the dark surface of the water, but it would quickly burn off once the temperature started rising.
None of the faces visible to him looked familiar. But that wasn't surprising. His profile had run high on this one, but visual contact had been limited and brief. He didn't worry about people who might notice him now and ask questions later. He could tell from the oil stains floating in rainbow-hued patterns across the surface of the swamp that the game had moved on, making the jaunt to Toronto necessary. Someone had landed a plane on the swamp sometime last night. The lubricating fluid and oil film had come from its engines. And flight was the only fast way out of the swamp. Which was why patrols to the north and along the coastlines had turned up empty-handed.
The Death's Enforcers had been the couriers for the product initially. But they had died here, at least most of them. So was it a double-cross, or a planned event? Bolan studied the loaded ambulances and twisted the questions over in his mind. Either way, something could have gone wrong. There was still margin for error along whichever course had been charted.
The odds were that the man Judson had insinuated into the operation was lying under one of the stained sheets. But if he wasn't, where was he and whose side was he really on?
And how many sides were involved? The DEA's. Vincent Corsini's. Maybe the undercover agent's. From the looks of things at the swamp, the Death's Enforcers' involvement had been severely cut back.
No matter how he had tried to fit it in, the assassination attempt against Piper Silverman made no sense. She was the undercover's contact with the DEA, but — if that was all she was — how did that make her dangerous to anyone? Or was she playing a side of her own? He had the feeling he wasn't the only one she was withholding information from. And whatever that information or knowledge was, it wasn't an easy burden. He'd seen evidence of that.
He hoped it didn't get her killed when the internal pressure of the operation shattered the loose set of rules overlying it. Turning his jacket collar up against the morning chill, he made his way back to the car, organizing a mental list of the ordnance he'd need once he reached Toronto and wishing he knew more about the parameters of the DEA operation.
10
Rye Thornton popped another penicillin tablet and followed it with a hit of speed. He bent over the water fountain and washed them down, cupping his hand to catch the cold water and rub it over his face briefly. The fever was still burning in him, but it seemed to have leveled off, leaving him weak and lethargic.
He blotted his face on the arm of the fringed leather jacket he wore to conceal the Smith in its shoulder rigging and the .38 S&W Bodyguard he had tucked in his waistband at his back. He didn't feel safe despite the armament. Then realized he probably wouldn't have felt safe carrying a bazooka on his shoulder.
Vincent Corsini was a psychopath, pure and simple. He'd heard it on the streets before ever meeting the man, had seen it in Vinnie's eyes, as well as evidence of the man's handiwork. But where?
The memory shied away quickly, sending a shudder through Thornton's stomach. His eyes rolled, distorting his vision for a moment till he blinked it clear again. He leaned against the concrete wall of the snack area till the dizziness passed, soaking up as much coolness from the surface as he could.
He breathed through his mouth. Blurred visions trampled through his mind, bringing alternating waves of fear and confusion. Memories of the dive from the Cessna, of the wind rushing into his face, of the bone-jarring impact against the ground, of the mad scramble through the forest he and Wings had landed in threaded across his eyelids in a black-and-white panorama that would have done justice to a John Huston film.
"Are you all right, mister?"
Thornton opened his eyes and blinked the speaker into view. She was perhaps six years old, with her raven's-wing dark hair divided into pigtails that trailed down the back of her white dress and a generous smile that revealed the absence of her two front teeth.
"I can get my mom." She placed her chubby hands on the door of the snack area and made as if to go get her mother.
"Wait." Thornton forced himself off the wall and to stand despite the imbalance he felt. He smiled. "I'm okay. Really. I've just got a headache. But thanks for asking."
The little girl looked down shyly, then said, "That's okay." She moved on to the Coke machine.
Thornton left the snack area and drifted back into the main part of the building. He took a few chips from the small bag of Fritos he'd been forcing himself to eat for the last hour, sucking the salt off them before chewing. The salt dried his lips out and made them hurt, but the pain was low-key enough to help keep him alert rather than be distracting.
The wound along his side was tender but it hadn't restricted his movements as much as he'd feared. The doctor he'd taken Wings to had also bandaged him and provided the penicillin. He'd obtained the speed when he'd dipped Into a hidden cash reserve to buy the doctor's care and discretion.
He put two more corn chips into his mouth and started sucking, knowing it would make him thirsty again soon but knowing, too, that he couldn't expect the penicillin to stay down on an empty stomach.
He looked around him as he walked, at the science exhibits that invited hands-on participation in the operation of television studios, musical instruments, electrical storms and simulated moon-landings. The Ontario Science Centre was a place he'd been to before. He'd met someone there, but he couldn't remember who.
He shrugged the thought out of his head. C'mon, Thornton, get your head back in the situation. You got control of ten million dollars' worth of Corsini's coke. Half of this city is going to be gunning for you. The past can't matter right now. You got the present, good buddy, and that may not extend past a dozen heartbeats into the future. You're going to cut a deal if you can, kill Corsini if you can't, then get the hell out of Canada. Go someplace safe. Mexico. Yeah. Ain't ever been there.
Or had he?
The thoughts swirled drunkenly inside his head as the penicillin acted to suppress the infection that fed the fever and the speed started ripping at the fabric of his mind.
He passed through family groups, fathers showing their sons and daughters how the different exhibits worked. The children recoiled from him despite the smile he tried to wear, and part of him felt sad, felt that something was missing. The adults put guarding hands on the children till he was gone.
An exhibit showing the power and fury of thunderstorms crackled and spit hisses at him, and he found his hand sliding neatly inside the leather jacket. His fingertips brushed the butt of the .45 before his brain cataloged the noises and turned off the self-defense reflexes.
Corsini wouldn't be looking for him here. The Ontario Science Centre was located at Don Mills Road and Eglinton Avenue, miles from Corsini's residence at the Westin Harbour Castle. Still, even that knowledge of distance did nothing to dispel the threat hanging over his life.
But there had been nowhere else to go, nowhere that he could remember.
He paused at another watercooler and drank till he felt bloated.
Most of the money he'd had hidden away had been spent on the doctor and the purchase of the 4×4 Toyota pickup he had left outside in the parking lot. There wasn't enough left to get far enough away fast enough. Even if he'd want to. There were still debts to pay — for himself, and for Skeeter.
He could almost hear Benny telling him he should have kept more of the money for himself rather than keep passing it on. IF YOU'RE GONNA PLAY THE PART, SONNY, YOU GOTTA PLAY IT FOR REAL. THEY TURN YOU LOOSE OUT THERE WITH A FLIMSY COVER, A GUN, A HEART THUMPIN' THE NATIONAL ANTHEM AND A BELLY FULL OF FEAR. THINK THEY GIVE A SHIT? HELL, NO! YOU GET THE CHANCE, AND BELIEVE ME YOU WILL, YOU LOOK AFTER YOUR OWN SELF. FUCK THEM OTHERS, 'CAUSE THEY'LL FUCK YOU IF THEY GET THE CHANCE. ANOTHER WORLD, SONNY, THAT'S WHAT IT IS. AND YOU GOTTA BE A BIG FISH IF YOU EXPECT TO SURVIVE.
He had nothing else to go by, no face nor a place where the words were said, just the memory of the man's voice. It left Thornton feeling like a cold shell wrapped around the fever.
He halted in the foyer, squinting at the bright late-afternoon sunshine. His stomach made cold, hard knots as he reached for the phone and dialed. A switchboard operator connected him with Vincent Corsini's rooms at the Westin Harbour Castle. A man answered in a low, guttural voice, advising the switchboard operator that Mr. Corsini was in the pool area.
Thornton asked to be connected and waited, listening to the empty buzz of static as the reroutes kicked in. A pool attendant answered, then went in search of Corsini. While he waited, he crushed more corn chips and looked absentmindedly at the people coming through the front doors. A man and his son entered with smiles on their faces, talking excitedly about the exhibits they wanted to see. He thought about how nice it would have been to visit the place with Thad, then had to fight down the urge to throw up. The effort left him weak and dry throated, grasping at the meaning behind the name.
When Corsini came on the line, his voice was tense and suspicious. "Corsini here. Who's this?"
"I wanted to call you, Vinnie, to let you know myself that Skeeter missed." Thornton made his words hard, masking the inner turmoil and questions that still wormed through him. "I figured you'd know that by now, but I wanted to let you know I'm still standing, too. I walked away from your little ambush, man, and I still got your product."
"What do you want, Thornton?"
"I want to know why you had Skeeter try to ice me, Vinnie."
Corsini snorted. "You're a cop, asshole. I knew that from the minute I laid eyes on you."
Thornton's brain whirled, slinging phantoms of memory in every direction. Something struggled in the center of that maelstrom. He went toward it, searching. The pain, the fear and the self-loathing swarmed over him, taking everything away but the anxiety. Beads of perspiration trickled down his face. God,
he had to stay away from those feelings. His hand shook on the telephone. "Fuck you, man. You don't know what the hell you're talking about. You made a mistake, Vinnie, a big mistake. And it's going to cost you big, too, because the price on your product just went up."
"I don't need it."
"Fine. I'll burn it. Can you afford to lose ten million dollars, Vinnie? I mean, everybody knows you ripped a sizable stash from your old man before you split with him, but can you really afford to write off that much this early in your budding career? Even your old man's pockets have bottoms, and he doesn't have any more love in his heart for you."
Corsini didn't say anything.
Thornton decided to wait the man out and hung on, grimly saying nothing. In the background he could hear splashing and muffled conversations. His head throbbed with the pain of the fever, and for a moment he thought it had made him deaf.
"What do you want, Thornton?"
He felt some of the inner tension relax. "To make a deal, Corsini. Just like before."
"A deal?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not gonna deal with a cop, Thornton. They lock you up for that shit."
"I don't know where you're getting your information, dude, but it's dead wrong. This is a bad situation we're talking about here. For both of us. You got ten mil invested in the product I can't get rid of. You've got every man working for you and every cop you can buy looking for me and this stuff right now, and I know that. I'm not stupid."
"Let's say for the sake of argument that I'm interested in dealing with you. What kind of arrangement do you want to make?"
"You paid us half the money for the delivery up front, Vinnie. I want it to be like you never paid any at all. You give me the full fee for delivery, and I'll see that you get your product."
"That's…"
"Robbery?" Thornton grinned despite the sick feeling in his head.
Corsini remained silent.
"Yeah, I suppose it is, Vinnie, but let's not fuck around here. Compared to the number you tried to run over me with Skeeter, I'd consider robbery or blackmail a charitable offense under the circumstances. You need this stuff, remember? You got a big deal set up. This'll set you for a lot more deals. At least that's what you told me. Now, provided that you weren't just trying to blow smoke up my ass with how big a man you were going to be after stepping away from your daddy's shadow, you can afford a small setback right now. Dig?"
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