“Now, you want to tell me where we are in this shitstorm?”
“All indications, sir, we are looking at a renegade agent.”
“Cooper, again. Your supersecret agent black ops pal of Brognola.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stop right there. I’ve read the man’s jacket thoroughly, ever since you started pissing in my ear with your conspiracy theories. He’s been part of Brognola’s special task force for a number of years now, and the way I’m hearing it from up top there’s some things better left unknown. Yeah, he’s probably former military, intelligence, some things raise a few questions, granted. Likewise I can read between a few lines, gaps in his service record, after action reports on certain operations where the Justice Department, namely Brognola’s office, swept double-digit body counts into a black hole.”
“My whole point, sir. My fear is he’s the renegade responsible for the attempt on Brognola’s life and in all likelihood the massacre in the Catskills.”
Worthy grunted. “How do you figure that? Unless he’s a ghost I don’t see him being in two places at once.”
“My theory is a team of two or three operators, under Cooper’s command, one in New York, one down here in our neck of the woods. Cooper jetting to and from, military flights from the looks of it, arranged, I think, through Brognola’s office. Problem is, all this smoke and mirrors, I can’t say at this time—”
“That’s a fact. You aren’t saying a goddamn thing, but I’m feeling smoke getting blown up my ass.”
Rollins winced, felt his chest tightening. “Sir?”
“You don’t show me the first inkling of proof, not a scintilla of fact.”
“There’s his ID….”
“A plant. A ruse, Rollins. You ever hear of misdirection?”
“Do you know something I don’t, sir?”
Worthy eased back in his chair, peering through the cloud of cigar smoke. “I just got off the phone with a lady who claims she knows both Brognola and Cooper. Claims she’s worked with them in the past. Mystery woman.”
“Easy enough to run a trace on the—”
“Yeah, and find it all leading into so many cutouts I’d end up running off, screaming into the night.”
“And she told you what, exactly?”
“Gist of it, tells me Cooper’s clean as one of heaven’s angels, above-board and beyond reproach.”
“And you believed her?”
“I don’t know, I really don’t know at this point.”
Rollins sensed Worthy holding back and opted for misdirection of his own. “How, uh, what’s the status on Brognola, sir?”
“His status?” Worthy gruffed, paused, smoked, measured.
“What I meant—”
“He’s out of surgery, in ICU, his life hanging by a thread. He took one through the lung. They plugged it up, but the doctor told me it was a miracle he made it to the emergency room at all, what with blood loss, all the blood swelling up the lung. The man near choking to death on blood alone.”
Now Rollins did square those shoulders, put on that brave face Worthy just talked about. “That’s great news, sir. I’m happy for the man. I understand his family is by his side. I’m sure they’re greatly relieved.” Rollins fell silent, the stare in the clouds sending an ice shiver down his spine.
“Right.”
“You’ll keep us posted?” Rollins asked.
“Right. Where were we? Oh, yeah. You want me to drop Cooper on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Seems, though, you already jumped the gun, nearly did that without this office’s nod. Just got off the phone with our people in New York. Apparently you already lit a fire under the man, got him on the way to the hangman.”
“Sir, I get the feeling you’re not understanding my position, my concerns.”
“Call me a big dumb-ass jarhead. Why don’t you spell it out.”
“We know virtually nothing about this Cooper, other than what Brognola wants everyone to know—and I’m thinking the man’s jacket was created by Brognola in the first place. Classic smoke screen. We have a walking mystery, what looks a gunslinger with carte blanche, a proved track record that defies normal federal procedures and guidelines, the manual thrown out the window in what many would consider clear breaking of this country’s laws. Why, if you look at all the bodies alone…”
“Rumor.”
“Then the AA reports. Hear the talk from agents in the field who have worked with the man. Put it all together, the glaring assumption—”
“Hold it right there. I don’t have to spell out what assume means, or do I?”
“Ass of u and me.”
“In this case it could end careers. Look, Rollins. We both know what you call a special project—black op—is not all that unusual in our line of work. The public never hears about it, of course, but we know of extreme operations…”
“I wasn’t aware the Justice Department had the authority to issue what amounts to a license to kill,” Rollins said, taking a chance.
“They don’t, and we don’t know for a fact that they are.”
“Sir, I’m assuming you know about the string of attacks on the Cabriano Family, and only hours ago? While our people were being slaughtered and Brognola was gunned down…”
“I do, in fact. And you’re implying?”
“I smell the work of Cooper.”
“Word I get from our people in New York, it’s either gangland competition or the Don’s Cali amigos. Then again, maybe it’s these spooks with their purported batch of radioactive waste from outer space.”
“My money’s on Cooper.”
“The man can damn near walk on water, to hear you tell it. Now he’s in three places at once. A man like that, a miracle worker, he oughta be able to do damn well what he pleases.”
Rollins bit down his rising anger and frustration. This was going nowhere fast. And Worthy, he sensed, was baiting him, but why?
“Tell you what, Rollins. You get me proof Cooper is this mad-dog gunslinger, I’m talking hard concrete no-shit evidence, and by the end of the day’s business. Right now, I’ve got far more on my plate than spinning wild tales about a man who appears to have the hand of God on him.”
“And you don’t see a problem with that?” Rollins asked, feeling queasy.
“Listen to me. We have slain men who fell under the protective sanctity of various departments within this building, not to mention families they left behind who are going to want some answers and, if they don’t get them to their satisfaction will be on every talk show—you want to talk conspiracy theories then? Then we have a federal witness on the run who could bring down the Cabriano operation, A to Z, who was going to give us the Quintero Cartel, Mideast terrorists and who claims to have set up the whole dirty damn deal with spook out west for this extraterrestrial material. In other words, we have damn serious work to do, questions to answer. You sitting there pissing and moaning about something you can’t prove is a waste of our time. One more thing, then you’re dismissed. My mystery lady? Before she hung up, she claimed to have proof that what happened to our people in New York was engineered from within our department.”
Rollins felt his heart skip a beat. “Really? A voice on the phone, no name. You’re not telling me you find her a credible source.”
“I’m not going to be as quick as I sense you want to be to dismiss what she told me. One thing I have to consider—she had this number, which, as we both know, is a secure line.”
Rollins put on what he hoped was the appropriate curious face, hoping there was no fear in his voice as he said, “I’ll leave that end of it to you, sir. In the meantime, I have a lot of work to do.”
“I want you to keep me abreast, every hour, on the hour. Understood?”
Gathering up his crime-scene report, Rollins stood on trembling legs, his heart thundering in his ears as he felt the full drilling impact of three sets of eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“And Rollins?”
He turned, steadied himself some
how. “Sir?”
“If this turns out to be an inside job, if there are snakes under our roof, if this is about taking Mob money, may God have pity on them. Because I will not. And believe me, I will get the truth.”
Rollins nodded that he understood, then headed for the door. If looks could kill, he thought, the eyes he felt watching him on the way out would have dropped him, in his tracks, a bullet to the back of his head. The director wanted proof, he thought, but evidence of whose guilt?
AD John Rollins felt his stomach churn. It was over, the only hanging question was, how far could he run?
ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER battlefield, and Jimmy Marelli would have enjoyed the front-row seat, watching the big man work, laying odds he’d beat the Cabriano-Cali house. Funny right then how time froze up. Three killing grounds opening up at almost the same instant, his life on the line, no less. No telling how many SOBs in the whole dirty rat pack were there to snuff him, or cuff him for a slice-and-dice party until he gave up the disk. Despite the fear of the moment, he couldn’t help but admire the warrior—realized all of a sudden he didn’t even know the man’s name. No sooner was the smokey dropping, than the big man pumped one grenade smack into the lead Towncar. The four-pack of jackals was blown away in the whirlwind of fire, smoke and flying metallic trash.
Road kill.
Which, he feared, was exactly what he would be, when he caught sight of the sleek warbird skimming the highway on the soar, then twisting. That big stainless-steel spinning cannon ripping the world apart, it seemed, in his face. He stole one final and what he knew was a foolish heartbeat to watch the big bastard mow down a few standing hardcases, then knew it was time to make his own move.
As the first tidal wave of bullets washed over the Crown Vic, Marelli bulled his shoulder into the door, the snarl of rage lost to the sudden din. The noise of rotor wash and the ear-splitting sound of that mammoth whirling machine gun drove the fear of the devil, from tingling scalp to aching feet. The drumming of heavy lead was like a locust swarm times ten thousand, he imagined. He was out the door, thrust, it felt, on living squall of sound and fury, falling just as he heard glass explode and metal groan under the barrage. He felt the swirling wrath of wind, the storm of glass, the merciless roar of weapon fire, his gut telling him he’d cleared the bombardment by a hair.
Marelli slammed down, air driven from his lungs. He buried his nose in the earth, held on and hoped for the best, but feared the worst. They were screaming somewhere close by, the eerie but thunderous drumming of those big slugs chewing up man and machine cleaving his senses.
Instinct told him the shooter in the belly of the flying beast had passed him by, assumed him waxed.
Fine by him.
Marelli began to crawl toward the slaughter. He needed to know the score. Depending on who was still standing after this mother of all bloodbaths…
Well, the only way to find out, he figured, was to keep crabbing on for the eye of the storm. For some reason, he found himself pulling for the big nameless one-man army. Some damn long odds, just the same, even for that guy, and if he was one of the casualties…
He’d figure out his next move, if that was the case. He was a survivor, after all. He’d seen plenty of killing and walked away before, middle finger to his slain dead, but he had to admit he’d never experienced this kind of slaughter.
The hell raging ahead, he thought, took The Butcher’s work to a whole new level.
FOR ALL OF TWO SECONDS, Cabriano was certain they’d pull off the hit. That was before the warbird dropped onto Frankie and the boys and chopped them up, down and all around like sausage meat shoved through a grinder. Whatever the fearsome weapon blazing away in the hands of the helmeted figure, his personal problem as of last night compounded his terror.
When the lead Towncar was lost in a fireball and the black-clad shooter started scything down their combined forces, working his field of fire, stem to stern, the warning bell in Cabriano’s brain gonged loud enough to split his brain with a fresh wave of horror.
“Call your driver back!” he shouted at Hildago. “Get us the fuck outta here! Now, goddammit!” he roared, as the warbird swooped down, closing the gap in seconds flat, angling around.
And the sky began falling on man and machine, so suddenly, swiftly and terribly, it struck Cabriano as if a divine lightning rod of retribution had come to punch all their tickets.
Paralyzed, Cabriano watched as the rolling wave of lead sheared roofs and hoods off the vehicles in front like flimsy tin cans, glass storms tearing through figures darting away from the hellish blitzkrieg, guys howling, grabbing at their faces and eyes, useless weapons hurled away. He felt his sphincter pucker, but losing control of bladder and bowels was the least of his terrors. Shame he might be able to live with, provided he was still breathing in the next few seconds.
Hildago, he heard, was screaming for Jorge or Ochoa or both—but Cabriano only needed one of them.
He got his wish. Their wheelman knowing no way in hell could he avoid the coming wrath, was practically flying through the door, tossing his subgun on the seat.
“Back up! Get us outta here!” Cabriano bellowed, aware next of Hildago matching him in both volume and tone of terror.
The world kept blowing up before Cabriano as the wheelman launched them in reverse.
Cabriano roared at the wheelman, as he shimmied all over the seat, nearly dumped in Hildago’s lap.
Cabriano kept hollering as the wheelman and Hildago went back and forth in Spanish, arguing, he hoped about the quickest flight path the hell out of there. The terror bulging the wheelman’s eyes telling him he didn’t care which direction, as long as it was far from the flying man-eater.
Cabriano found himself kissing the door’s upholstery, as the Towncar’s back end whipped to the side without warning. He was ready to pull his weapon, shoot the wheelman, who kept babbling in Spanish, then commandeer the vehicle himself when he became aware of a faint trilling. The unholy racket of the gates of Hell diminished as it dawned on him the sound belonged to his cell phone. He grabbed the instrument, the thought fleeting in his mind that this was some sick joke being played on him by unforgiving fate.
A phone call? At a time like this?
He wanted to scream at Hildago’s driver to stop shooting them in reverse down the narrow dirt trail—trees and brush and big rock blurring past—before they crashed and burned, but fear and curiosity found him punching on before he knew it.
“Yeah!”
“Why are you running?”
Cabriano caught the strain of his own laugh. He couldn’t believe it, sure terror had carved off any last shred of sanity.
“What?”
“What are you so afraid of?”
“You gotta be shitting me!”
“I told you,” he heard the ghost on the other end say, “I came to help. Truth be told, Peter, I’m here to rescue you.”
He was about to tell the voice of all this big help where he could stick his version of saving the day when Hildago’s scream pierced the air. The car slammed into some unyielding object and Cabriano lurched back, spine and neck contorting with the force of the collision. He felt his head hammer off the ceiling next, stars blasting in his eyes. Then he was grabbing at air, joining the screams of the Cali duet, aware they were off the path, tumbling, wheels over, out of control.
9
By Bolan’s count there were three packs of predators to deal with. Whoever the Gatling blaster—the warrior presumed black op—if rumor panned out that American intelligence operators were sleeping with the country’s worst enemies, there was no telling how far and wide their collaboration went. He’d heard about the promised sale of dual-use technology, a mystery batch of radioactive brew.
Traitors, in his mind, were the worst of cannibals. He vowed to send those who sold out their nation on their way to hell. No mercy, no exceptions.
No hope.
Then there was Cabriano and his bunch of thugs, killers, extortionists
and drug dealers, to name just the short list of their crimes. From what he’d seen of the Mob pack so far, he had a pretty good picture of how they wanted life to fit for them. They were playboys, party animals, out for themselves and a good time, making sure they had plenty of dirty money in their own pockets. Fun and games came at the expense of whatever their family life. If bagged like Marelli, they were quick to want to save their own skin, ready to whine, bellyache, blame the other guy. It was the system, the wife, the judge, the lawyer who screwed them, some rat bastard did them in. It was how the wicked thought. In his estimation, the real tough guys were out there, earning an honest living, feeding a family, providing an education, trying to live right. Sometimes failing and falling down, but getting back up, not cursing their own misfortune or fate, blaming God and everyone else.
Take it on the chin, own up.
But he wouldn’t find it here, on this highway to hell, among the few standing or walking wounded. No, they didn’t want to give up the ghost. They wanted their idea of the good life to keep on going. The Executioner knew he couldn’t allow that to happen.
The gunship had shifted. Bolan picked himself up following his tumble down the embankment. It was quite the savaging he found. Mangled red ruins of inhumanity were moaning, dragging or shimmying their zombie walk through the smoke and flames. Figure the swarm that ate them up were 12.7 mm or maybe 20 mm rounds, pounded out at anywhere from three to five thousand bites per minute. The size of the holes he found in man and machine told him they were most likely armor-piercing to boot.
The gunship was a few hundred yards north, nose dipping, slicing a new path off the road, vanishing into the woods following the direction in which one Towncar had beaten a hasty, but for the moment safe, exit. Bolan’s money was on Cabriano.
A look over his shoulder, and Bolan saw no sign of Marelli. The Crown Vic was a smoking hull of fist-sized bullet holes on flattened tread. There was a good chance, he knew, the vehicle had become Marelli’s hearse.
So be it.
At the moment, Bolan had a few straggling armed matters to contend with.
Poison Justice Page 10