Wild Card

by Don Pendleton

  "Where do the Death's Enforcers fit in, Johnny?"

  "I'm not sure, exactly. I've heard they have a road captain named Thornton, who's moved up pretty fast in the organization. Thornton is the one who managed to link the Enforcers to Vinnie's organization through small-time courier service and bodyguard work. Tame stuff compared to what the bikers used to be known for, but sensible, too. Since Thornton took over two or three months ago, the arrest rate for the Enforcers has been down and the money has been up. They can't complain. Hell, maybe Vinnie saw a kindred spirit in Thornton. Also, the word is that Vinnie was going to be able to cover the Enforcers by using the guy he made a connection with in the DEA. I get the feeling that when the time comes, Vinnie will dump those guys, too. They don't fit the corporate image he wants to maintain."

  Remembering the sheet-covered bodies he'd seen in southwest Florida, Bolan was sure Corsini had already taken steps to ease the bikers out of his life. He thanked Tallin, listened to the guy make one more pitch to find out what was going on, then hung up.

  He replaced the phone inside the briefcase on the table, then played everything he'd learned from Tallin back through his mind. A guy inside the DEA? He rubbed the lower part of his face, already feeling stubble returning. Was the hit against Silverman made to take her out because she might know who the double agent in the DEA was? Or was it made by some of Corsini's people who were afraid she was going to back out of whatever deal she might have made with them? It scanned either way. To an extent. But he couldn't assign either motive to Silverman.

  She had a secret, yeah, but he didn't think it had its origins in either of those lines of thinking. His gut feeling told him that her trouble lay in another twist of the pattern he hadn't yet discovered.

  The straps of the shoulder holster containing the silenced Beretta chafed against bare skin under the warm-up jacket. He fisted the handle of the phone case and moved off, feeling the eyes of Corsini's bodyguard follow him as he walked around the pool.

  It was time to loosen up the surveillance he had on Corsini and move out into the field again. If something wasn't happening now, he had to make it happen before Corsini had the chance to bury any signs of the operation he had put together.

  But if Silverman wasn't the inside person Corsini had working for the DEA, who was? The man riding with the Death's Enforcers? Or someone else?

  11

  Piper Silverman stared at her reflection in the hotel room mirror and wished her thoughts could become as tangle-free as her hair, which she was combing.

  Too much had happened in Miami. Too many questions had gone unanswered.

  And now Ryan was about to be labeled a rogue agent, unless she could figure out some way to get in contact with him and bring him in from the Death's Enforcers and Corsini. Or convince Judson and the DEA that Ryan hadn't gone rogue.

  She combed harder, dissatisfied with the way her hair fell and even more dissatisfied with the feeling that her hair was the only problem she could deal with now. Anger swelled within her again when she remembered bits and pieces of the arguments she'd had with Judson that morning. But she hadn't been able to hold her feelings or her fears back after going from ambulance to ambulance, searching for Ryan's body. The undercover operation had taken everything else from Ryan; it couldn't take his life, too.

  She had seemed so in control of things at the beginning of the Corsini investigation. So well versed in what to do and what not to do. Yet she'd broken every ground rule laid out for deep work. She'd gotten involved, and she had no one to blame but herself. She couldn't help wondering if Ryan Thornton blamed her, too. God, there had been so much guilt between them. Maybe they'd have been able to set it aside if everything else hadn't happened, too, and if there had been an outside resource for them to go to when Ryan lost his family.

  She had seen the loss in him afterward, but they had never been able to talk about it because it would have opened old wounds and made them even deeper. And she had hurt for him, carried her share of the grief and the guilt.

  She would have pulled both of them out of the investigation if she could have, even if it meant going over Judson's head. But she knew it would have probably meant losing both their jobs, or, at the very least, demotions. She didn't think Ryan could have withstood that, as well.

  Face it, Piper, she told her reflection. Truth to tell, you didn't think you could take the cut, either. You haven't done one totally unselfish thing since you met Ryan. You helped push him in deep, kept monitoring his progress by yourself. He was going to be every bit as much your prize project as he was Judson's. She watched her eyes redden and turned away from the mirror.

  She wanted nothing more than to have a good cry. The bath had been good for her as well as necessary. She wiped at her eyes till she recovered control of her emotions. The last thing she needed was for Judson to find her like this. She wished she had been able to sleep on the flight into Toronto the way Judson had. But she had been afraid of the nightmares, afraid that she might talk in her sleep in the way she had when her younger sister used to tease her about it.

  She couldn't remember when the last time was that she'd been able to sleep. Even the restless slumber she'd been suffering the last month would have been pleasant.

  Slipping out of her robe, she put her undergarments on and dressed in jeans and a loose printed blouse. Judson had said to look like a tourist today because he wasn't sure what they would be doing. It depended on what the DEA and the RCMP researchers could turn up on Ryan.

  Rogue.

  Judson's term hammered at her.

  Rogue.

  How many cases had she heard of where deeps actually turned rogue? She had to admit there had been a few. Even more who had been found out to have dirty hands. But Ryan Thornton?

  There was no way.

  She just wished she could convince Judson of that.

  Yet she had to admit also that things looked bad right now. Ryan hadn't made the last meeting with her, hadn't made any kind of communication with any of the DEA task force, and had managed to steal quietly out of Miami in the middle of a manhunt geared for him. Then there were all those bikers' bodies in the Everglades.

  Something was definitely wrong with the operation, but she couldn't bring herself to believe Ryan had gone rogue.

  She tied her running shoes and was reaching for her shoulder holster when someone knocked at the door. She slid the pistol out, freed the safety and looked out the peephole.

  Judson was already raising a knuckled fist to knock again.

  She opened the door and stepped back.

  "You alone?" Judson asked as he stepped into the room.

  "Yes." She held back a scathing remark, knowing it would only have led to another argument. They'd arrived in Toronto less than two hours ago. Who could she have invited into the room?

  Judson looked around anyway, trying to mask the movement with his hands as he lighted a cigar.

  Silverman put the 10 mm back in the shoulder rig and sat down beside it. "Did something come up?"

  "No." Judson shook his head. "Was something supposed to?"

  "I know the RCMP have put paper out on Ryan by now. I thought something might have happened with that." Please don't tell me he's dead. She didn't know how she would handle that much guilt alone.

  "No. Nobody's seen him."

  "Maybe he's not in Toronto."

  "Oh, he's here all right."

  Judson's confident attitude puzzled her. "Has something been turned up?"

  Judson squinted his eyes a moment as if to consider the question. He shook his head again. "No, nothing definite. Just a feeling I've got."

  "If it's anything like the one that says Ryan Thornton's turned rogue on this investigation, it's wrong."

  Judson gave her a half smile. "Have you given any thought to what you're going to do if I'm right about this?"

  "It would be wasted thought."

  "Would it now? I wonder." Judson scratched his chin. His windbreaker fell open, revealin
g the pistol tucked into his waistband.

  Something felt wrong to Silverman, but she couldn't put her finger on it. When had she ever seen Judson tuck a pistol in his pants? The man was usually the last to unleather a weapon in a firefight, and never pulled it till he was sure it was going to be needed.

  "A Cessna was dumped into Lake Erie early this morning," Judson said. "Luckily it landed near the edge of the lake, where a quick recovery was made by the shore patrol. It had bullet holes in it, Piper, and bullets that matched the ones taken from the bikers' bodies in Florida. Thornton's body wasn't one of those that was found, so we have to assume he was on that plane."

  "But that doesn't make sense, Frank. Ryan would know he was in over his head. He would have known to make contact with someone connected to the operation."

  "That's what everyone else thinks, too."

  "Why wasn't I told about this earlier?"

  "I wanted to do some thinking about this before I told you."

  Silverman felt her face burn with anger. "What do you mean by that?"

  Judson crossed his arms, curling the cigar up in one corner of his mouth. "I mean Thornton seems to have had this caper sewn up pretty good. He's out there somewhere, running free with ten million dollars' worth of cocaine, looking to make the deal of his life."

  "You're wrong about that."

  "I don't think so. And a lot of the people I've been talking to don't think so, either."

  Silverman stood and walked to the end of the bedroom, unable to remain sitting. She folded her arms across her breasts and faced Judson. "Why did you have to think before you told me this, Frank?"

  "I wasn't sure how you'd take it."

  "If you're going to take me off this investigation, don't you think it would be better to pull me out of the field rather than neuter me informationally and hope I don't get underfoot?"

  Judson flicked ashes off his cigar onto the carpet. "Is that what you want?"

  "Does it matter what I want? It seems like you're the one making decisions around here by holding out information."

  He stabbed the cigar at her, punctuating his words. "Look, missy, I can give it to you either way you want it. You just call the damn tune."

  Silverman blinked back her rage, focusing on Ryan and on the fact the man would probably be cut adrift without her. "No."

  "No what?"

  "No, I don't want to be pulled off now."

  "Fine by me," Judson said. "But I want you to know we're going to do this my way. I want our asses covered on this thing."

  Silverman forced herself to remain silent.

  "I also want to know if Thornton's been in touch with you since we got here."

  "We've only been here a couple of hours, Frank." Silverman felt her patience slipping through her fingers.

  "That's plenty of time for a phone call."

  "There hasn't been one."

  Judson sighed.

  Silverman felt the wrongness close in around her then, caging her.

  "I wish I could believe you, Piper." Judson tugged the pistol free of his waistband.

  Not believing her eyes, Silverman watched the barrel swing up in her direction, locking on to her midsection.

  "But I don't suppose it really matters any more. If you and Thornton have been plotting something behind my back, it's too late anyway."

  Silverman tensed, forcing herself not to glance at the automatic lying on the bed covers. Getting ready.

  Judson extended the pistol and said, "Don't, because I'll kill you right here if I have to."

  Ducking, Silverman flung herself for the bed, snatching at the holstered 10 mm. She heard Judson curse, caught the man's movement toward her in her peripheral vision, expected to feel a bullet rip into her. Her fingers touched the butt of the pistol, started closing.

  A flash of light twinkled to her left, homing in on her temple. Hot pain jolted through her head. Then everything went black.

  * * *

  Thornton pulled a New York Yankees ball cap on before stepping out of the pickup in front of the convenience store. The fever had risen again with the approach of nightfall, and the hits of speed operating in his system had thrown handfuls of unrecognizable nightmares at him. Memories, he was sure, that thrust at his consciousness like a videotape hung in fast forward.

  Still, the drug kept him functioning despite the fatigue and the sickness of infection raging in his body.

  He swept a hand across his forehead as he walked to the public phone in front of the building, feeling the cold and clammy chill that clung to him. He couldn't tell anymore if he was dizzy from the wound or from the speed, or if it was a combination of the two. And he was afraid if he sat down for even a little while, he would stop caring if he took another step.

  The clerk behind the counter eyed him with thinly disguised contempt. Some part of his mind, a part that hadn't been walled in by the sections of cognitive thought working toward his survival, didn't blame the man. He felt dirty, knew from his flat, colorless reflection in the store window that he appeared disheveled.

  He leaned against the wall, wishing he could soak up some of the stolid strength locked in the bricks. Not much. He didn't need much, just enough to carry him through the next few hours. Then it would all be over. One way or another.

  He blotted at his face with the bottom of his T-shirt, using his other hand to make sure the .38 didn't slide from its place at his back. His stomach growled, but he didn't feel the hunger pangs. Speed did that for you.

  His hand shook slightly when he fisted the receiver, and he looked at it with bright interest. The shaking subsided, but he wasn't sure if it was because the session passed or because he tried to make his hand remain still. He dropped in a quarter and turned to watch the truck by the curb. It was important, he told himself as the phone rang. The only thing keeping him from certain death was the cocaine hidden up in the spare-tire well under the truck bed. Without it, he'd be trapped here. He needed the money to get away.

  "Yeah." Corsini's voice was harsh.

  "Me," Thornton said in a soft voice. "Did you get the money together?"

  "Yeah. It's chump change, Thornton."

  "I know, Vinnie, that's why I gave you the time to get it together." Thornton watched traffic move north on Simcoe from the intersection with Queen Street West. He was closer to Corsini now, and he could feel that registering on him, too.

  "I'm a busy man, Thornton. Let's cut the shit and get down to the deal. When and where?"

  "There's a record shop on Yonge Street, just south of College, called the Plumrose Passion. Know the one I'm talking about?"

  When Corsini said nothing, Thornton forced himself to chuckle dryly. "Yeah, you know the one I'm talking about, Vinnie. You don't have to say a word. I know that record store is just a front for some of your other aspiring business interests. A buyer going to the Plumrose Passion gets his choice of a large range of sixties psychedelic music and designer drugs. I also know the record store is near where you're supposed to meet your Swiss delivery guys."

  "You think you've got it all going your way, don't you, cop?"

  Thornton looked back at the counter clerk, who turned quickly away when he noticed Ryan maintained eye contact. "I'd say I do. Better than I've had it for a while."

  "Don't get used to the good life, Thornton. Everybody's day comes sooner or later."

  Thornton grinned. "Vinnie, Vinnie, what are you trying to do? My, my, all this tough talk. What if you actually managed to scare me away? What would you do then? How would you get the coke?"

  There was no answer.

  "You've got to plan these things out, Vinnie. Once you get things going your way, you don't try to talk the other people involved in the situation into backing out. Donald J. Trump wouldn't be where he is today if he practiced business like that."

  "What time?"

  "Ten-thirty. Same time as your delivery from the Swiss people. I figure you'll be less inclined to start something stupid if you have an audience of peopl
e you want to continue to do business with who'll become disenchanted by dealing with you as the gangster rather than as the entrepreneur."

  "I'll be there."

  "So will I."

  "Make sure the coke is, too," Corsini warned. "The way I see it, this businessman has nothing to lose by making an example of the guy who fucked a deal over for him." Corsini hung up before Thornton could say anything.

  Thornton stared at the dead receiver in his hand for a moment, then slowly hung it up. Had the roles reversed while he wasn't looking? Or did it merely seem that way because of the speed? Confidence. Suddenly Corsini was brimming with it, while Thornton's eroded. He checked the clock hanging over the refrigerator section in the convenience store. Two hours till the delivery time, and the record store was less than fifteen minutes away.

  His stomach rumbled, growling its displeasure, though he couldn't feel it. He moved into the store, feeling the refrigerated air brush away the clinging fragments of the outside humidity.

  He felt the clerk's eyes on him all the way to the cold-drinks section, felt the back of his neck prickle with anticipation. Ignoring the microwavable sandwiches, he reached in and pulled out a quart of orange juice. It wouldn't do to go into tonight's activities with a stomach full of food, a memory told him, because if he was shot in the abdomen, the food could get into his system and fill him with gangrene. Every rookie knew that, and yet every rookie sooner or later got over the fear and started eating during his or her shift again.

  Rookie?

  He made a frantic grab at the memory, snared it, pulled it expectantly, came face-to-face with a thread that led to Thad and…

  His mind reeled away from the sudden impact.

  God, he'd almost had something that time.

  Feeling the clerk's eyes on him, he moved toward the counter and placed the orange juice on it. He glanced at the security monitor hanging over the area, saw himself and took a minute to study his features. He had a hard time recognizing himself.

  Had he looked different?

  He was sure he must have. But how?

  He stroked the beard, knowing it could easily account for the most dramatic change in the way he appeared. He tried to imagine what he would look like without it.