* * *
The telephone roused Hal Brognola from the twilight zone of sleep. He checked his watch and snared the receiver ask rang again.
"Hello?"
"I'm on a pay phone," the familiar voice informed him. "Can you talk?"
"We should be clean. I ran a recent sweep."
"Fair enough." The soldier hesitated for a heartbeat, then said. "We've had a problem."
"Oh?" Brognola didn't like the way his flesh had started to crawl, as if the ants were burrowing beneath his skin.
"A welcoming committee. South of Shreveport. Have you got a pencil?"
"Shoot."
"Check out the Cajun Cottage Motor Inn, Red River Parish, down in bayou country. Closest town I saw was Cross Roads."
"That's the name?"
"Affirmative."
"What happened?"
"Uninvited company came knocking. They've been taken care of, but we also had civilian casualties. The place was smoking when we left. It should be on the air by now."
"No line on whose they were?" the big Fed asked.
"I have a surname, probably the crew chief's. Meyers. It isn't much."
"I'll run it down," Brognola told him. "I've got contacts with the state police down there. With any luck, we'll make your playmates and the names will lead us somewhere. Numbers?"
"Nine or ten, from what I saw."
"Survivors?"
"None I know of."
"Jesus."
"Right. I'm interested in learning how they traced us."
"So am I. A little birdy tells me that you changed the route."
"He put out spotters?"
"That's affirmative. Security and so on. Tried to act relieved that you were showing some initiative, but I don't know."
"How goes it with the plumbing?"
"Last I heard, they're leaking right on schedule. I've been trying this and that to run it down, but nothing so far."
They were already running long on time, so Bolan broke it off. "I'll get in touch tomorrow sometime through your office."
"Do that. If your boys have jackets, they'll be on my desk by lunch time. And be careful."
He was talking to a dial tone, and he cut it off, a finger on the plungers. There were calls to make and wheels to set in motion, but he had to put his thoughts in order. Disorganized response was often worse than no response at all, especially when lives were riding on the line.
He hadn't asked about Aguire, for the soldier would have told him if they had a problem there. The witness was alive, so far, but that didn't translate to mean he was secure. If Vos — or someone else — had run him down this soon, they could expect more trouble on the road before their songbird reached Los Angeles.
Assuming that he ever got there.
Brognola reached for a cigar, thought better of it, and began to make a mental list of people he could call. His closest friend on the Louisiana state police was a captain based in Baton Rouge, but he would know the people Hal should contact. Nine or ten dead gunmen at a rural passion pit was bound to raise some eyebrows and the troopers would be out in force.
As would the journalists.
The big Fed lusted for a drink, decided it could be postponed with the cigar. Ten bodies made it headline time, complete with a story on the network news show. How it played would be dependent on the ID's of the casualties. If they were traceable to Vos — a slender possibility, at best — it wouldn't help the dealer's case. Conversely, if the stiffs were independents, mercenaries, there was still a chance to bury the connection while the Bolan brothers brought their package safely home.
Damage control was the first priority, and Pratt would have to deal with fending off the media. Brognola's mind was forced on the more specific problem of Aguire's — and the Bolans' — safety. There was no way he could chart their route, but if he made the shooters who had blown it, there was still a chance that he could mount a swift preemptive strike against the brass.
He lifted the receiver, punching numbers before the dial tone had a chance to register.
It was time to wake some people up.
* * *
"We're on line to trace the shooters," Bolan told his companions as he slide behind the wheel. "It'll take a while. They figure noon."
"That leaves us close to thirteen hours in the dark," Johnny said. "I don't like flying blind."
"We've got no options."
"Game plan?"
"Still the same. No point in changing routes again if they can track us down that easily."
"We could call in the cavalry."
"I thought of that. It makes a bigger target, and we don't know who we're dealing with when they arrive."
Aguire cleared this throat. "I want to help. I tried last night before you knocked me out."
Bolan turned to face him. "Nothing personal but we've already had this little chat. No guns."
"I can defend myself."
"No doubt, when you've got warning and it's one-on-one. The plain fact is, we've got the job of making sure you don't get killed by Thursday. In the meantime, I'll feel better if I know where all sniper fire is coming from."
"You think I wish you harm?"
"I think you've got a world-class motive for a disappearing act. Delivery is part of our assignment, and I'm not prepared to lose you, one way or another."
"If I was interested in being a defenseless human target, I'd have done the time Pratt offered as an option. That way, Vos could pick me off in prison when he had the urge."
"I didn't write your contract with the DEA. If you have second thoughts, you're welcome to express them in Los Angeles."
"We'll never make it. Not alive."
"I don't think I can stand this lavish optimism," Johnny remarked.
"I'm being realistic," Aguire answered. "I don't know who tried to take us out tonight, but I can tell you where the orders came from. He won't give up because you dropped the hammer on a couple of his soldiers. They're a dime a dozen. He's got hundreds more where those came from."
"Sounds awesome," Bolan said. "It makes me wonder why you tried to burn Vos in the first place."
"Greed," Aguire told him honestly. "What else? I wasn't in the business for my health, you know. I saw an opportunity to make some easy cash, no kickbacks to the man, and I bought in. I might not do the same again, but what the hell, it's done."
"You couldn't cut a deal with Vos?" Johnny asked.
"He didn't get to be the man by giving second chances. One strike and you're out."
"Unless you've got the balls to walk."
Aguire forced a smile. "I don't intend to rabbit, gentlemen. While Vos is still in charge, there's nowhere I could go. I have to deal with him before I make the break. We'll have a better chance of getting to L.A. with three guns. It was close tonight. They won't take any chances next time."
"We'll get by," Johnny told him.
"But I know these people."
"Then you won't have any trouble prepping us before the action starts."
Aguire raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I understand."
"You know the territory and the players," Bolan said. "You should have some idea about their operating methods, contacts, how they'll try to hit us when the time comes."
"I can tell you that, all right," Aguire answered. "After what just happened, they'll use every man and every gun they have. Make no mistake about it. Vos won't rest until I'm dead."
"In that case," Bolan countered, "we intend to see your old amigo lose some sleep."
Johnny flashed a winning smile. "I'd say he's in for some insomnia, and no mistake."
Aguire concentrated on his sandwich, knowing that debate was fruitless. They wouldn't permit him to defend himself, so he'd have to find a way around that obstacle. If Green and Blanski meant to sacrifice themselves in the pursuit of duty, that was one thing. He had no wish to share their martyrdom.
Aguire would survive until he reached Los Angeles, no matter what.
And God help
any man who tried to stop him now.
* * *
Trask ran his fingertips across the bars of tempered steel that formed his cage. They were cold to the touch, chilling him at the juncture of metal and flesh, raising instant goose bumps on his arms and back. Repulsed, he broke the contact, backing up until he stood precisely in the center of the small enclosure.
He couldn't explain his presence in the cage, nor did he recognize the building that surrounded him. A vacant warehouse, possibly, although encroaching shadows barred his view beyond a range of ten or fifteen feet. The sole illumination was a naked bulb inside the cage, itself surrounded by a screen of wire to keep him from removing it.
As if he would have dared.
The darkness frightened Trask, a legacy from childhood he had never fully overcome. Not any darkness, mind you, but the kind that brooded, threatening, in strange environments, hiding enemies and monsters of his own imagination.
He could hear them moving in the shadows now, beyond the boundaries of the light. Their steps were slow and heavy, dragging on the concrete floor, and they were closer now than when he first heard them. The light was keeping them at bay so far, but if it failed…
Another chill. Trask wondered if the predators could see him trembling, smell the fear that radiated from his body in sour waves. Some animals — and men — were driven mad by the smell of fear, choosing victims on the basis of their instantaneous reaction to a threat. The bold and strong survived, while others were devoured.
At the moment, Nathan Trask felt neither bold nor strong.
What was he doing there? The answer came to him immediately: Vos. Somehow, unwittingly, he had displeased the dealer, and he'd been taken from his home, confined inside this cage until a fitting punishment could be decided. He was marked for death, the only questions being how long it would take and how much he would suffer in the meantime.
Knowing Vos and the sadistic streak that he concealed behind a thin veneer of charm, Trask had no hope of mercy. Had he been a pious man, he might have prayed, but even that escape hatch lay beyond his grasp.
"Good evening, counselor."
Trask recognized the voice. It was his contact from the number Vos had given him in jail. The man in charge of tracking down Aguire.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked, attempting to present a bold facade.
"You're being phased out, counselor. I thought you knew."
"This is preposterous."
"We don't reward incompetence. Much less a coward."
"Let me speak…" But even as the sentence formed itself upon his lips, he knew that it was useless.
"Speak to whom?" his captor asked. "To Vos? I'd like to, counselor, but that's impossible, as you well know. He's doing life plus ninety-nine because you fucked things up. I drew the job of passing on his thank-you."
Trask was honestly bewildered. How could Vos be serving life plus ninety-nine without a trial. It made no sense at all, but he wasn't in a position to debate the question.
From the shadows, men dressed in black, with ski masks covering their faces, moved in the direction of his cage. Trask counted six of them, more curious than frightened when he saw the box they carried slung between them. It was made of plywood, painted black, and when they set it on the floor, it blocked the trapdoor that appeared to be the only entrance to his prison.
"Something here to keep you company," the disembodied voice informed him. "Like a house pet, I suppose you'd say."
Trask caught a whiff of something rank in the box, recoiling as the occupant began to claw against confinement, raking slivers from the walls.
"It's hungry, counselor. We haven't fed it in a while. I thought you might take care of that, okay?"
"You must be crazy."
"Nope. I just love animals."
One of the men in black had bent to unlock the door to Trask's cage, sliding it upward on runners. He then reached down to free a hatch that closed the near end of the snarling box.
"No, wait."
"I think it's waited long enough, don't you?"
"For Christ's sake, don't!"
"A little playmate, counselor."
The hatch was rising, and he cringed against the bars, with no place left to run. The box burst open in front of him, but before he had a chance to glimpse the snarling animal, the solitary light went out.
Trask screamed, as an alarm began to clamor in his brain. It rang incessantly and deafened him to every other sound, as if…
The telephone.
He sat bolt upright in the bed and lifted the receiver with a trembling hand.
"Hello?"
"I hate to wake you, counselor."
The voice. And calling him at his hotel.
"What is it?"
"We've got problems. Nothing I can talk about right now. I have to pull some strings, but I'll be calling you again at half past seven. Have you got that?"
"Seven-thirty. Yes."
"Not there."
"I understand."
The voice reeled off a State Street address. Trask repeated it for confirmation, startled when he got it right.
"Check out the first booth on the left, and don't be late. You miss this call, you miss the boat."
The line went dead, and Trask sat holding the receiver for another moment. The dial tone humming in his ear. He replaced it and rose to stand before the window, staring down at Jacksonville by night.
There would be no more sleep, despite the time. He had an unexpected meeting scheduled for the hour when he usually woke, but that was nothing in comparison to the horrific power of his dream.
He dared not face the cage again, to find out what was waiting for him there.
* * *
They found a narrow access road off Highway 71, south of Taylortown, leaving the blacktop and following a rutted dirt track for three hundred yards through palmetto and scrub. Bolan parked their vehicle inside a stand of willows, and killed the engine, listening to metal ticking in the darkness as it cooled.
"We should be covered here," he said. "They can't get close without a giveaway. I'll take first watch."
"You sure?" his brother asked.
"No sweat. I need the time to sort things out."
"Okay. You'll wake me, what, say two o'clock?"
"Let's make it three. You need the beauty sleep."
"A sit-down comic, yet. Terrific."
In the back, Aguire huddled on the Jimmy's bench seat, breathing deeply. Faking? It would make no difference, either way. He wasn't going anywhere, and if the Executioner was forced to drive that lesson home by deeds instead of words, so be it. They had promised to deliver one live witness in Los Angeles, but no one ever guaranteed that he would arrive untouched by human hands.
With sunrise and a bit of luck, they would be exiting Louisiana, rolling west across the Lone Star State. If any members of the Cajun Cottage raiding party had survived — a scout, for instance — chances were that he'd be tied up with a debriefing from his sponsors. Failure never went down well with men like Vos, and the recent foul-up had been nothing short of monumental. The authorities would have some pointed questions of their own.
Bolan had a witness to deliver, with a two-day deadline still remaining, and his gut was telling him that worse times lay ahead. Aguire might be laying on the doom and gloom a little thick, but he was close to Vos and knew the way the dealer operated.
All or nothing.
Scorched earth.
It was a game the Executioner knew very well, indeed. He'd been playing on the home team all his life.
11
Still bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and wired from too much coffee, Trask drove once around the block before he found a parking place convenient to the bank of phone booths. Following directions, he was standing in the proper booth — and feeling damned conspicuous — at seven-thirty. Even so, despite the order and his preparations to obey, Trask jumped when the telephone began to ring.
"Hello?"
"Good morn
ing, counselor."
"What is it?"
"Good news, bad news. Let's dispense with bad news first, okay?"
"I'm listening."
"Good job. Some friends of mine ran down your pigeons in Louisiana, south of Shreveport, but they fucked it up. Aguire and his escort got away."
Trask felt his stomach lurching through a barrel roll, a resurrection of his meager breakfast imminent.
"You said…"
"Don't tell me what I said, okay?" A spark of sudden anger in the voice was both frightening and gratifying. The bastard could be touched, and by extension, wounded. "Seems these boys I fielded didn't come prepared. They got their asses kicked, but there's no way they're talking to police. No way they're talking, period."
"You mean?…"
"I mean these baby-sitters got their act together. Next time we'll know who we're dealing with."
Trask didn't like the sound of "we," however distant and abstract its implication.
"Next time?"
"Sure. You think it's finished? Vos wants this Aguire taken care of. I'm the man. One fumble doesn't wrap the game. I've got some other people on it now."
"But if they got away…"
"A temporary setback, counselor. No sweat. We'll pick them up again before you know it. They're not going where I can't follow."
Trask put on his best attorney's voice. "I'm certain Mr. Vos will be disturbed by this report."
"I wouldn't be surprised. Just tell him everything's on track, and that nobody's giving up the ghost. When he gets into court out west, he'll find the prosecution short one major witness."
"I'll relay your message."
"Beautiful."
"And if I need to get in touch again?"
"I've got your private number, counselor."
"I think we'll both agree that isn't wise. You never know who might be listening in."
"Okay, let's say we talk again tomorrow. Same time, same station. Good for you?"
Another anxious night, Trask thought. With any luck, anticipation might produce insomnia and block a repetition on his nightmare.
"Fine."
"All right, then. You hang tough now, you here?"
Blood Run Page 11