Blood Run

by Don Pendleton

  "What progress have you made?"

  The disembodied voice was smug. "We're tracking, counselor. They've changed the scheduled route."

  "So much for planning."

  "Hey, it's not a problem. I'm on top of it. They haven't got a chance of showing up in court."

  "You say."

  "That's right. I say."

  Trask mustered all the nerve that he had left. "I don't mind talking to a voice without a face or name, but let's get one thing straight. My client won't have any trouble reaching out for you if things go wrong. I daresay he'd make it a priority. Are we communicating?"

  For the first time, Trask detected a note of uneasiness behind the other voice. "I hear you, counselor. And there's no need for all this heavy rap. We're tracking, like I told you. They're not going anywhere that we don't know about."

  "How long?"

  "Get real. I can't pin down an hour, just like that. We'll wait until they go to ground this evening. Safer all around, you follow? Sitting ducks make easy targets."

  "They'll be armed."

  "No shit? I thought the Feds would hire some Quakers for the escort team."

  Trask felt the anger rising, bitter in his throat. "I don't have time for this," he snapped. "If you have something to report…"

  "Just call your office?"

  Swallowing the mockery, he muttered, "No."

  "I didn't think so, counselor. Before you get all high and mighty, listen up and I'll explain what happens next. Tomorrow at eight o'clock — I don't mean seven fifty-nine or eight O-one — you call me back. Another phone booth, anywhere but that one. I'll have news. You're late, I take it to the man myself."

  "I understand."

  "Be talking to you, counselor."

  The line went dead, and Trask retreated to his car. Another day before he could expect results for Vos. More waiting, and potentially in vain. Trask told himself it wasn't worth the risk, the aggravation, but it made no difference now. The game had been his own selection. He had no choice but to play the hand as it was dealt and pray that he didn't wind up losing everything.

  * * *

  The original route had been simplicity itself, calling for a smooth cross-country run on Interstate 10, from Jacksonville all the way to Los Angeles. Bolan had chosen the course from a cursory glance at a triple-A map, but he had no intention of following through. If there were leaks at the DEA, he meant to keep them guessing, and the surest way to throw the enemy a curve — aside from switching cars — would be to change the travel route.

  They abandoned the 1–10 near Lake City, Florida, following Interstate 75 north into Georgia. From Valdosta they veered west on Highway 84, across the southwestern corner of the state, stopping for food in a Seminole County diner that advertised Good Eats. The patrons showed a marked preference for pickup trucks and baseball caps with advertising slogans printed on the front. Denim overalls and checkered flannel shirts were the uniform of the day.

  They ordered the specialty of the house, which turned out to be overdone burgers and underdone french fries, with suspicious-looking cole slaw on the side. They ate in silence for the most part, carefully avoiding small talk. Bolan kept one eye on the parking lot and studied new customers as they arrived. There were no vehicles outside with license plates from Florida, but that meant nothing. Vos would have connections all along their route, and if the network failed, there'd be free-lance hunters anxious to improve themselves by picking up the bounty placed on Aguire's head.

  The DEA connection, Pratt, had estimated that the price might top a million dollars by the time they reached Los Angeles. Considering the danger that Aguire represented to a multibillion-dollar empire, Bolan thought it was conservative. But all those zeroes would provide great motivation for the hungry guns who prowled the fringes of the underworld, desirous of promotion, lacking the contacts necessary for a straight shot at the big time.

  Knocking off Aguire would be doubly beneficial to an up-and-coming gunner. With a million dollars in his pocket, he could start to live his fantasies, and at the same time he would score some major points with Vos, a man in need of new commanders for his network. Anyone who tagged Aguire would be sitting pretty when the dealer walked, and gratitude alone could mean a cushy job in distribution, well removed from the persistent dangers of the street. With some initiative and brains, a new kid on the block might carve himself a niche in Vos's empire that would make a million dollars look like chump change.

  Some incentive.

  He finished off the burger, picturing a million dollars cash. The Executioner had walked away with many times that figure in his one-man war against the syndicate, obtaining his «donations» from assorted numbers of banks, casinos, shooting galleries and bagmen. Never interested in money for its own sake, he had ironically allowed the Mob to fund its own destruction, funneling his profits into weapons, vehicles, surveillance gear. On rare occasions, he made lump-sum payments to the families of victims, knowing cash alone could never heal their wounds, but powerless to help in any other way.

  Mack Bolan understood the lure of easy money, and he knew that it was seldom easy. Throwing off the nine-to-five routine, in many cases, meant a life of running scams around the clock, eternally pursuing payoffs that were just around the corner. There was money to be made through drugs, pornography and sex, but wealth was concentrated in a few strong hands, as land and power had been concentrated during feudal times. How many hookers kept a quarter of their earnings when the night was over? Where were all the superstars who planned to conquer Hollywood through hard-core films and videocassettes? How many pushers on the street would stop a slug or serve hard time in lieu of cashing in on twisted dreams?

  The Executioner had seen it all before, so he knew that there would be no end of hopefuls, yearning for a shot at Vos's enemy. A moment in the spotlight, one play that could make or break their lives. It would be Bolan's job to prevent some cocky youngster — or some seasoned pro — from canceling Aguire's ticket and collecting on the contract Vos had issued. If and when they surfaced, they would have to die.

  He pushed his plate back, noticed that the others had already finished. Bolan paid the bill and left a tip proportionate to the amount and quality of service. He was glad to reach the parking lot, where honest gasoline and diesel fumes replaced the smells of lard and Lysol that were trapped inside.

  Their Jimmy stood between a rusting pickup and a 1967 Chevrolet. Bolan circled the vehicle once, inspecting it, although it had been visible from where they sat throughout the meal. When he was satisfied he turned to his brother, reaching for the keys.

  "I'll drive."

  * * *

  They followed Highway 84 across the border into Alabama. A few miles west of Evergreen, they picked up Interstate 65 for the southwestern run to Mobile and the Gulf. Riding shotgun, Johnny divided his time between scanning the scenery and checking the wing mirror, watching their back.

  "It's amazing," he said to the silence.

  "What's that?" his brother inquired.

  "Well, I pictured the South as one humongous swamp, like the 'Glades or the places we trained at Fort Benning. A bus stop or two, a few honky-tonk bars where the rednecks kill time, and a chain gang out working the highway. From what I see here, all the pine trees and hills, we might just as well be in New England."

  His brother was smiling. "I'd say that you need to get out more."

  "You might have a point." Johnny let his smile fade. "Getting tired?"

  "Not so much. We can trade in Mobile if you like."

  "I can drive."

  Johnny turned to Aguire, surprised by his offer.

  "No, thanks," the Executioner responded. "This trip's on the house. If we run into trouble, we won't have the time to change drivers."

  "Of course. As you wish."

  The Colombian fell silent again, staring out at the trees, and Johnny turned back to examine the highway, wondering idly what was going on inside Aguire's mind. How did it feel to be a hunted man,
more valuable dead than he would ever be alive?

  The question startled Johnny, and he spent another moment studying his brother's profile. Mack had spent a lifetime with a price tag on his head, and he seemed none the worse for wear. He had acquired new scars along the way, and sometimes there appeared to be a trace of weariness around his eyes, a hint of sadness, but he still had all the moves. If something had been lost along the way, it didn't show.

  Perhaps, Johnny thought, that was because he also played the role of hunter in the game that he had chosen for himself. Whenever possible, he turned the tables on the predators and let them know precisely how it felt to be pursued. In Texas, facing trial on manufactured murder charges, and again in Arizona — when he'd been wounded, run to ground — Mack had been able to turn the tide and beat the stalkers at their own damned game. He had a knack for sitting through defeat and finding victory.

  The younger Bolan had been helpful to his brother, both in Texas and in Arizona, but he rarely had the chance to work with Mack from the beginning of a job. The other gigs had blown up out of nowhere, taking Johnny by complete surprise and forcing him into a situation where the game was strictly do-or-die. It was a different situation altogether, rolling overland with a specific deadline and objective, knowing that the enemy might strike at any time, from any quarter.

  Johnny thought about his legal work in San Diego, how he split his time between helping the poor and working for state or federal prosecutors. It produced a strange dichotomy, defending and accusing, sometimes playing both roles in a single day. At times it made him wish for something simpler, more direct, and then his mind was drawn to Mack, the everlasting war where good and evil could be recognized, addressed as black and white.

  He realized his brother had a freedom few men ever knew — the opportunity to choose his enemies and act against them forcefully, the chance to make a concrete, lasting difference in a world where compromise too often won the day. But freedom carried a responsibility as well: a duty to perform regardless of the risks involved. Regardless of the danger.

  Johnny put the morbid train of thought away and concentrated on the countryside, examining the hills and trees as if the answer to their problem might be hidden there. And finding none.

  * * *

  At thirty thousand feet, the Lear jet's pilot killed the seat belt sign and cheerfully addressed his passengers over the intercom. "We've reached our cruising altitude, and we're on schedule for the first leg into Dallas. Smoke 'em if you've got 'em."

  Peering through the tiny oval window at a field of clouds, Paul Feder wished that he was back in Florida, conducting business as usual. Two days earlier, as "Michael Wix," he'd been bringing down Ernesto Vos, and now the DEA was wasting his experience on escort duty, playing decoy while their witness took another route to reach Los Angeles.

  "This sucks."

  Beside him, Agent Alex Coleman — lately known in southern Florida as Ansel Crane — put on a sympathetic smile.

  "Forget it," Coleman advised. "It's like vacation time, with pay."

  "It's like a swift kick in the ass is what it's like. If they want someone guarded, why the hell aren't we on Vos? Or on Aguire? Anyone can run this scam, for Christ's sake."

  "It's supposed to fool the bad guys," Coleman offered, "so they use the best."

  "You got a shovel, Al? It's getting pretty deep in here."

  "So what's the beef? You worried someone else is going to get the credit for our collar?"

  Feder thought about it, scowling. "No, not really. I just hate the feel of being pushed aside, you know? We put this deal together, and Pratt knows it. We've got better coming than a round-trip to L.A."

  "Don't knock it. I've got friends out there. They'll fix us up in no time. You'll be glad you came, believe me."

  "Bullshit."

  Feder had no quarrel with the idea of getting laid: it was the thought of getting robbed that turned his stomach. Busting Vos had been the big one, and he should have been in line for a promotion. Granted, there hadn't been time for Pratt to process all the paperwork — such things took weeks in a bureaucracy like the DEA — but Feder had expected something more up front than simple "attaboys."

  Like some respect, for instance.

  Glancing back across his shoulder, Feder noticed that their pigeon seemed to be asleep. Pratt said he was an actor — no, a would-be actor, as the face wasn't familiar from the movies or TV. He bore a fair resemblance to Aguire, heightened by a change of hairstyle and the mirrored shades that hid his eyes, a flashy suit that must have put a major strain on petty cash. He had the swagger down, and probably would pass for Carlos at a distance, even through a sniper scope. But now, relaxed and sleeping, Feder thought that the guy left much to be desired.

  And who, for Christ's sake, gave a damn?

  In Dallas they were staying on the plane while it refueled. At LAX, they'd be waiting on the runway for a caravan of black-and-whites to make the pickup, whisking What's-His-Name away to county jail, where he would be residing incommunicado for the next few days. It had to be an eerie feeling for the actor, playing to an audience of none, but he was being paid, so what the hell?

  If there was any action, Feder calculated it would come in Jacksonville before they put Vos on the plane. By this time, old Ernesto had to figure he was in the shit, and it wouldn't be out of character for him to try a jail break. Hell, it would be out of character if he didn't. In Colombia his word was law, and when he told a judge or prosecutor it was time to jump, they asked how high. Supreme court justices had been assassinated on his whim, and Feder knew that Vos wasn't about to take a term of life plus ninety-nine without a fight.

  No way at all.

  Nor would he be deceived so easily by Pratt's diversionary tactics. It made sense to help Aguire out by running decoys, but it only shaved the odds; it didn't guarantee that he was free and clear. Before he reached Los Angeles, the state's key witness stood to face a ton of heavy shit. And Feder would have given damn near anything he had to be there, standing toe-to-toe with Vos's gunners when it all went down.

  But he was going out to California. On a milk run. Wasted.

  "Bladder break," he grumbled, rising from his seat and edging past Coleman, standing for a moment in the aisle to get his balance. He was halfway to the restroom when something shook the jet, causing him to stumble.

  "What the hell?"

  He turned toward Coleman, glimpsed his partner's face, and recognized the truth, too late.

  "Aw, shit."

  The jet disintegrated in midair, its wings sheared off by the explosion. Fragments of the fuselage were hurled in all directions. With the momentum from the blast, the cockpit and its occupants flew on for several hundred feet, a comet trailing smoke and flame, before it slowly, gracefully, began to fall.

  * * *

  The hunters found Aguire and his escort west of Orange Grove, Mississippi, making decent time along the I-10. The license plate was wrong, but there was no mistake. The driver hung well back, while his companion used the radio.

  "We've got 'em, Central."

  "Are you sure?"

  "No doubt about it. Different plates, but it's your pigeon."

  "What's your twenty?"

  "Westbound, Highway 10. Let's call it fifteen minutes out of Bay Saint Louis."

  "Don't nobody spook him, now."

  "He'll never know we're here."

  "All right, you stay in touch. They stop somewhere, you call in double-quick, and I'll have people out to help you."

  "Roger that."

  "We're sitting pretty if we don't mess up."

  "I know just how to do it."

  "Don't go trying anything without a backup, now, you hear?"

  "I read you, Central. Out."

  The shotgun rider hung the microphone on its hook and slipped a hand inside his leather jacket, drawing reassurance from the Army-issue.45 he carried in a shoulder sling. It would be easy, he imagined, just to overtake the Jimmy, pump a couple live ones
through the driver's window, then see what they could see.

  "You want to take them?" the driver asked.

  "Hell, no. I only thought…"

  "Don't think, all right? You're driving. Let's not push our luck."

  The wheelman frowned. "A million dollars, Arnie. Free and clear."

  "This ain't about the money, Claude."

  "Oh, no? Well, what, then?"

  "Shows how much you know about the business. What we're doing here is moving up, comprende? Paying dues and making friends that can't be beat."

  "You mean we don't get paid?"

  "The money's secondary." Arnie loved to dazzle Claude with his vocabulary, trotting out the big words anytime he had the chance. "We'll get our cut, all right, but I want something better."

  "Shit, what's better than a million bucks?"

  "Respect. Authority. We're moving in a different circle, here. If you can't see that, you're nowhere."

  "I see a fortune on the hoof, that's what I see. If we call all kinds of backup in, they're going to shave that bounty down so fine it won't pay next month's rent."

  "How much you figure we'll be earning if we go against our orders, Claude? You reckon everyone will be so happy they'll just let us keep the whole damned payoff for ourselves?"

  "They might."

  "Sometimes I truly wonder, Claude. You give me cause."

  "We do the work, we ought to get the cash."

  "And if we fuck it up?"

  "Say what?"

  "Who's in that Jimmy, Claude?"

  "Some kind of stoolie."

  "And who else?"

  "A couple escorts."

  "Are they cops by any chance?"

  "I figure so."

  "You figure they've got any guns at all?"

  "Well, natcherly they got…" Claude stopped and glanced at Arnie frowning. "Oh. I get it."