A hardman minus his left arm below the elbow came toward him from a pall of smoke, cursing in Spanish and shooting wildly. With a 3-round burst of autofire from his M-16, Bolan put the amputee out of his misery.
The Cali jackals, namely the Quintero Cartel, were heavily involved with this mystery deal. As the campaign unfolded—or unraveled from that point on—all indications were that a visit to Colombia was in order.
But first some mop-up was necessary.
He navigated slowly onto the road, marching his path toward the reeling cannibals, figuring five, six, tops. He was tracking the wreckage when he heard the crack of pistolfire to his rear. Wheeling, Bolan spotted Marelli, up and gunning down hardcases, pistol jumping in hand.
IT WAS THE SOUND of terror that revived Cabriano. If he never heard that damnable grind of helicopter blades again he’d…
What?
Change his ways? Promise things he could never deliver? Be faithful to his wife? Give all his money to charity? How much did he really want to live?
Plenty.
He was on his side, face mashed into glass, lip-locked on metal and vinyl, the world of horror roaring back all too soon, pondering his next move. One—no, two—voices were cutting through that awful bleating, hollering something in Spanish. He looked up, wondering about his own injuries, the squall blowing glass in his face, when rolling thunder severed what was already an ungodly din. Whatever Hildago and the wheelman had been screaming went with them, as Cabriano found some of their remains splatter the broken teeth of the passenger window.
He began digging for hardware, fingers wrapping around the pistol, when he spotted the faceless creature in the window.
“I thought I told you not to run, Petey.”
He almost had the pistol out but froze a heartbeat too long, terrified by the helmeted, visored apparition. Before he knew it, a hand that felt the size of a small car came down, had him by the hair.
“I thought I told you there was nothing to be scared of?”
Cabriano felt terror hold down the scream, as he was hauled through the window. He heard the voice of doom growl, “You don’t listen too good, do you, asshole?”
MARELLI CONSIDERED himself a take charge, action kind of guy. That in mind he couldn’t quite see himself just stand around, thumb up his butt, letting the big guy do all the dirty work for him—no, have all the fun. For one thing, the SOBs on hand had come to check him out of the world. Under normal circumstances that alone would be enough for him to dive into the fray, take enough pounds of flesh to fill a slaughterhouse.
But there was nothing normal about the big man, or the moment.
Marelli had the trooper’s pistol, was marching down the line of cars, an image of a huge white shark leaping to mind the more he observed the bruiser wading into all the blood and guts. No fear, no hesitation, the big shooter just eating them up, fast, furious, no mercy. It was awkward, wielding the pistol with hands bound by plastic cuffs, but adrenaline took over.
And there were still a few walking wounded reeling about, looking for payback, howling from the smoke and flames, not wanting to give up the ghost.
Then there was the bite of leaking gas in his nose, the fear one of the vehicles would ignite, incineration a definite concern.
Time, he figured, to wrap it up before he was federal toast.
Marelli started picking targets, the man-eater on the far side, M-16 blazing. Each vehicle was turned into a hearse, as he devoured whatever life cried out from behind ruined windshields. Two gory stick figures washed in blood, head to toe, staggered into view, partly obscured by drifting smoke. Marelli tapped the trigger twice, opting for head shots. The big man wheeled on him.
“Drop the weapon!”
Marelli hesitated, ready to argue. Hell, if he’d wanted to he could have already tagged himself a man-eater, and to be honest with himself the thought had crossed his mind. Then what? He figured he was better off at that point, safer at any rate, with the man-eater.
“I won’t tell you again!”
Marelli threw away the pistol and thrust his hands up as the warrior came his way. “Hey, I was only lookin’ to help, pal.”
The man’s look told Marelli he didn’t need any assistance.
Marelli checked the highway, amazed no traffic had appeared in either direction. The big guy was off, inspecting their Crown Vic, Marelli telling him, “Don’t bother. Radiator’s shot to hell for one thing, but I guess you can see the steam.”
The big guy swept over to him and took him by the arm.
“Next time I see you holding a gun will be your last.”
Marelli was already a believer.
ROLLINS HAD ALREADY LEFT the building. An emergency meeting had been demanded by the attorney general, and he knew his AWOL status would raise eyebrows, and ire. The feces was hitting the fan, from D.C. to the Catskills.
Trouble was, he suspected he was already sunk.
He decided to hit a pub on K Street for a quick belt or two, get his head together, sort through his options.
Which, he already feared, were nonexistent.
Looking over his shoulder, eyeballing each passing face, jumping as a horn blared, he recalled the most dreaded words he could remember hearing in his life.
“Mr. Brognola is coming around. His vitals have stabilized, and it appears he keeps trying to say something.”
Rollins had nearly shrieked at the agent posted to watch Brognola. “What?”
“Sounds like he’s trying to say a name.”
There was only one name Rollins could imagine Brognola struggling to blurt out.
He barged into the pub, beelined for the bar. Checking his watch, he found there was plenty of time to clean out his bank account, race home, gather up his passport, empty out the safe in his room. He would skip the country, vanish into thin air. Change identities, of course, a man with a little money could set up pretty decent, he heard, in the lower Americas. Spread a little grease around…
Run, then—that made the most sense.
He heard the bartender repeat the question of what he wanted. He ordered a double Scotch, neat. The guy held his ground for a second too long. Why the evil eye? he wondered, searching the bar, the booths next, knowing damn well his paranoia about phantoms was well founded. The drink came back, guy asking if he wanted a menu.
Rollins shook his head. “I won’t be staying.”
“You having a bad day, mister?”
“I’m having a bad life.”
Rollins turned away from the measured look, grateful to be alone. Images of the ex-gunnery sergeant boiled to mind, but he’d checked in with Worthy before vacating the premises. Figure he’d bought himself an hour or so head start.
Killing the drink and ordering another, Rollins checked his surroundings again. He hated the nagging suspicion he was being shadowed. Maybe Brognola wouldn’t make it. Maybe he’d lapse into a coma. Maybe he’d fled too soon.
No, he told himself, he was making the right choice. To stay and face the music was a sure death sentence. Run, and keep on running.
BOLAN GAVE UP DIGGING through the mangled ruins of the bodies heaped near the Towncar dumped on its side. A few close rounds during the heat of combat, one of which had shot his own cell phone off his hip…
No time to curse misfortune.
“Now what?” he heard Marelli ask.
“Now, we walk and rustle up a ride.”
Marelli chuckled. “You realize what we must look like to some tree huggers out here?”
“I’m a federal agent, in case you forgot.”
“I don’t know what you are…”
Bolan jacked Marelli by the arm, shoving him down what appeared to be a footpath. He needed wheels, a phone. With Brognola clinging to life the soldier had to count on Price to clean up whatever trap had been laid for him in all this mess.
Ears tuned to the bleat of rotor blades or sirens in their wake, Bolan saw the Winnebago, parked in a clearing. He ushered more speed out of
Marelli, closing on the RV. He hung the M-16 around his shoulder and dug out his Justice Department credentials. There was no sign of life as he crept closer, then he saw an elderly man step around the front side.
“Relax,” Bolan told him, flashing his wallet ID, worried the old guy might have a heart attack, the way he threw his arms up, lips quivering. “I’m with the Justice Department.”
RICHARD GROGEN WAS SICK and tired of the mobsters being all in a snit every time he turned around. He had worries of his own, enough so that the coming chore would lighten the mental burden a little.
Maybe.
The black op DOD airfield was tucked away in a stretch of remote desert in southeast Utah. The sun was breaking over a lunar landscape, Grogen already feeling the first beads of sweat moisten his forehead. He was anxious to be on his way. One look at the black cargo gunship, one ear tuned to Gagliano’s pissing and moaning how come his guys were doing all the mule work, and Grogen gave his new orders a mental kicking around.
The drums of toxin were already rolled into the cargo bay of the big bird, fastened down with enough strap to contain King Kong.
Or so he hoped.
He was ordered to ride with the cargo to the end of the line. Gagliano and his men were being cut loose. And woe be unto him, he knew, if he didn’t carry out those orders. Disobedience meant termination in his racket, and that didn’t mean picking up a pink slip at the end of the day’s business.
Marching out of the office, he looked at the hangar, a slew of curses lashing his ears. The new team along for the ride had been beefed up to an eight-man force. Apparently their first stop was Miami. Touchdown in Homestead, then they were off and running and gunning to pick up this much-ballyhooed and dreaded disk, the one the hit man had created such a furor with.
He gave the big beast—tagged the Flying Shark—a long once-over, as Gagliano flailed about, huffing and puffing. Built to DOD specs, it was a hybrid cross between a C-130 and a Spectre gunship, complete with all the firepower. All avionics and sensors were upgraded to supertech but…
It was those damn drums. Say some heavy turbulence jostled them around, lead shield or not, he knew that garbage was a thousand times more potent than acid. It could burn through just about any alloy known to man.
The markings on the drums gave him pause, too. Inside a triangle there was an octagon and a pentagon, all entwined at various angles. Spooky. He’d be damned if he knew what all that meant.
Grogen found his troops assembled, half behind the Mob force, the other half staggered beside him. Ready to do the deed.
“All set?” he asked Gagliano.
“Yeah. No thanks to you.”
He looked at Henson, who gave him the nod. “Battened down, sir.”
Grogen, unslinging the HK subgun, gave his troops his own nod.
The mobsters didn’t stand a chance, as they were hemmed in, front to back, fat cattle ripe for the slaughter. Eight subguns cut loose in unison, sweeping the hoods, stem to stern. They screamed, cursed, were shredded to red ruins, dead on their feet.
Apparently, Grogen thought, as the last thug dropped, there were too many problems in New York to trust Cabriano any longer. Not that they ever did, but the intent now was to squeeze the last piece of useful life out of the crime boss.
Grogen held his ground, staring at the Flying Shark. Beyond Miami, he knew they weren’t exactly going to the land of milk and honey.
Colombia.
Down there, he knew it could all get real dicey.
He heard the heavy trundle of wheels over hard-packed earth, watched as the black van rolled up and braked near the strewed corpses.
“Let’s be quick about this, gentlemen,” he ordered his men, as the first few bodies were hefted off the ground and dumped in the van.
One look at the smoke pluming from the stack jutting from the far edge of the big hangar, and he knew the incinerator was already fired up.
“I FIGURED YOU for a runner. Going gets a little tough, you were ready to bail on us all along.”
Rollins was standing by the wall safe when he heard the strange voice from behind. He froze, heart in his throat, then felt himself choke down the sob. One second he was grabbing cash with lightning fast cobra strikes, about to be home free, the next moment he had the voice of doom in his ear. For a brief moment he wrestled with two options. Buy, or shoot his way out.
“I wouldn’t do what you’re thinking.”
Rollins couldn’t find the courage to turn and face the stranger. “Who are you? FBI? Justice?”
“Nope. Let’s just say I work for the people who actually run this country, or pull the string behind the scenes.”
“You’re black ops, in other words.”
“Helped put together this whole deal. From Brognola to Cabriano to the Cali Cartel. By the way, Brognola came awake long enough to finger you. I apologize if I caused you unnecessary grief by not finishing the job.”
Rollins cursed. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“What’s it all about?”
“National security.”
“You’re telling me a crime boss, Brognola and Cooper are a threat to national security?”
“More than you could ever understand.”
Rollins felt his hand shake, gauged the distance to the voice. He was finished, but the more he thought about it now, the more insane it had sounded before he ever accepted the first payoff. “Who are they?”
“We don’t know, well, not exactly, but we’ve had suspicions now for some years they’re part of a covert agency not even those silly pukes on the Hill know about.”
“I can pay you to let me walk out of here.”
“Pay me? My friend, I’m going to take back the money anyway.”
The laughter told Rollins everything he needed to know.
“This thing was never about you, Rollins. It’s about Cabriano, a shadow deal we cut with him.”
“The deal with the Cali Cartel and terrorists.”
“That would be the one. See, we intend to take the whole damn lot of them down, all parties gathered, one big happy family. There will be a ton or two of cash on hand, some will go into black ops coffers to fight the war on terrorism and the war on drugs.”
“And let me guess where a fat chunk of change will go.”
“Hey, there’s some of us paid some heavy dues along the way, friend. We’re not cut-and-run types like you.”
Rollins thought he was going to be sick, the bastard standing there, laughing at him, no way out.
“Back or front, Rollins?”
“Why?” he cried.
“Because you’re a loser. We gave you a chance to prove otherwise, but you caved at the worst time. Now, I’m left cleaning up messes all over the map.”
Loser, huh? Rollins thought. The guy was saying something he didn’t hear, his ears roaring with hate and fury. He was wheeling, pistol out, but he knew he’d never make it.
10
Beyond feeling as if he’d been launched back in time to star in an episode of The Twilight Zone, Cabriano had a frightening picture of the future taking shape in his head the longer he sat in the silent presence of the three armed men in black.
He had a pretty good notion who these nameless faceless specters were, and he admitted to himself the spaceman scared the crap out of him. He was the shooter with the big gun, after all, still wearing the helmet with visor that hid his face. Like some proud papa he stood there beside that mammoth Gatling gun, hauled back minutes ago on some electronically controlled section of the floor. The hatchway then slid shut, killing sunlight, leaving the glowing halo of monitors and his rising fears. It was as if, Cabriano thought, he was itching to start spraying again, even inside the tight confines of the chopper.
They had dumped him like he was nothing more than a sack of garbage in some draped webbing he figured passed for their idea of a seat. Cabriano wished they’d say something. While they studied him like some exotic bug under a microscope, he l
ooked at the walls—bulkheads, he believed was the accurate military term. They sort of created a dome overhead, bubbles pocking the walls, weird, like he was on a spaceship.
Cabriano felt he was, indeed, trapped in another dimension.
“Smoke?”
He jerked his head, the spaceman coming to him, offering him a butt. “Yeah, thanks.”
Maybe this would be all right, after all, he thought. So what if they wasted the cream of his soldiers. Cali would never know what happened on the road, since he was the only survivor. All this death and mayhem since last night, and he was still breathing.
Still there was something he didn’t trust about the moment. He hesitated, then reached out to accept the peace offering when the fist slammed him in the mouth. “What did you do that for?” he hollered at the crew-cut black-clad shooter standing beside him. Then he looked to the spaceman, as if for an explanation, spit blood on the floorboard and took another shot to the kisser.
“Don’t spit on my chopper, asshole.”
Instead of handing him the smoke, the spaceman gave it to his hitter.
“Who the fuck are you guys?”
“I think you already know.”
“Yeah,” Cabriano snarled, tasted the blood filling up his mouth and dripping down his throat. “Military black ops, maybe Special Forces.”
“Oh, we’re special, all right.”
“Means you can run amok all over the countryside, wasting honest citizens.”
He took yet another fist to the teeth.
“Goddammit!”
“Don’t curse,” the spaceman warned. “Don’t get smart. Your life depends on the cooperation we receive in the next twenty-four hours or so.”
“Cooperate doing what?”
“The deal with the Colombians is in motion. You’re going to help during the transaction.”
Cabriano felt his jaw drop. Blood began trickling down his chin, so he wiped it off with the back of his hand. “I thought that was my deal.”
“Not anymore. You’ve been having a lot of difficulties the past twenty-four hours. You couldn’t even see to it Marelli handed over the disk.”
“I was working on it.”
Poison Justice Page 11