Blood Run

by Don Pendleton

  He hung up on the chuckling voice and stalked back toward his car. It was still two hours before he could see Vos in jail, but he'd need the time to polish up his message, find the perfect turn of phrase to keep the volatile Colombian from going crazy when he heard the news.

  A fumble? From the lawyer's viewpoint, it appeared to be a bona fide disaster, but he would confess a limited degree of expertise in the domain of contract murder. Things could still work out, if Vos's soldier made it right the second time around.

  And if he blew it?

  Trask deliberately made his mind a blank and put the Porsche in gear, unaware of the dark sedan that fell into place behind him as he made his way downtown.

  * * *

  It has been said that all of Texas looks the same. By nine o'clock, his second morning on the road, Mack Bolan had seen nothing that would make him call the statement into question. Flat and dry, with distant hills and stands of trees that always seemed remote from Bolan's line of travel, Texas seemed to be a boundless prairie, one mile indistinguishable from the next. And by midmorning, Texas had begun to simmer.

  They had followed Highway 71 into Shreveport, alert for tails and roadblocks. They encountered no resistance as they picked up Interstate 20, westbound through the Lone Star State. It took an hour for the Executioner to shake his stiffness from a night of sleeping in the driver's seat, but he felt better as they put the miles behind them. By nine o'clock, the Dallas-Fort Worth sprawl was dwindling in their rearview mirror.

  "We're making decent time," Johnny said, a road map open in his hands. "I make it something like two hundred miles before we catch the interchange. Fill us in on Texas, Carlos."

  Lounging in the back, Aguire seemed intent upon the landscape rolling past his window. "Biker territory," he finally responded. "The Italians have some action down in Dallas, but it's nothing heavy. Some Vietnamese along the Gulf, in Galveston and Corpus Christi. Bikers handle all the major traffic, serving as liaison with the other syndicates."

  "Which club?"

  "The Mongols are on top right now. They've had some run-ins with the Angels, and they came out second-best in California, but they've still got Texas by the balls."

  "They deal with Vos?" Johnny asked.

  "Everybody deals with Vos," Aguire replied. "The Mongols have their labs to manufacture crank — that's speed, to you — but when they want some flake for party time or resale, Vos takes care of all their needs."

  "And in return?"

  "They pay the same as anybody else, but sometimes Vos will take it out in trade, instead of cash. The Mongols are stone killers, man. They'll hit anybody for a price, and sometimes for fun. New members have to make their bones before they qualify to wear the colors. Some clubs have their private armies — like the Angels with their 'Filthy Few' — but you won't find a single virgin in the Mongols. Every one of them has been bloodied, going in."

  "Nice boys."

  "They pull their weight. Remember, it's a business. Anybody tries to cut you out, you cut him first. Survival of the fittest."

  "So now we're watching out for motorcycles, too?"

  "We're watching out for anything and everything," the Executioner put in. "I've got a call to make in Roscoe, but it won't take long, and we can catch a bite there. Anything but plastic heroes."

  Johnny grinned. "You should have seen the tuna salad. It was positively gruesome."

  * * *

  Vos read misfortune on his lawyer's face. Trask was an open book, his narrow range of moods transparent in their private meetings, though he could approximate a decent poker face in court. It was obvious from the attorney's grim expression that he bore bad news.

  "You seem discouraged, Nathan."

  "I've been talking to your boy," Trask said, a trace of angry color rising in his cheeks. "He called my goddamned house last night. The private number."

  "Ah. A breach of etiquette. I'll speak to him about it when this business is behind us."

  "Never mind the etiquette. He muffed it."

  Vos was silent for a moment, studying Trask's face and working to control his own emotions. «It» would be the contract on Aguire's life. The dealer managed to suppress a grimace as the thought of failure drove a spike of pain between his eyes.

  "Explain," he said, his voice not betraying his inner turmoil.

  "I don't have the details. Some bunch of assholes found Aguire and his escort in Louisiana, and they let him get away. I don't know where or how. It hasn't made the news yet, and I'm hoping that it won't. If the courts get hold of this, we will both be in for major heartache."

  "Relax," Vos said. "A minor setback. If they found Aguire once, they'll pick him up again. We have two days."

  "I don't like working in the dark, Ernesto."

  "Understood, but I have taken these precautions for your own protection… and for mine. The man you're dealing with has served me well in other matters. I expect him to succeed."

  "And if he blows it?"

  "Then you'll have a chance to crucify Aguire on the witness stand. The cross-examination of a lifetime. But I don't believe that it will come to that."

  "I won't be any good to you if I'm in prison, too," Trask grumbled, sounding petulant.

  "You are my eyes and ears outside these walls," Vos told him. "It is known that I have no living relatives, and my associates… well, let us say the Yankee prosecutors are reluctant to approve their visits."

  "All I'm saying is…"

  "You're frightened. It's an understandable reaction for a man whose life has been made up of books. You're in no danger, Nathan, I assure you."

  "This man is calling me at home, for God's sake. I don't know who's listening these days. The IRS or the DEA — it could be anyone."

  "Or no one."

  Trask was plainly not convinced.

  "It would be foolish for the government to intercept your calls," Vos said. "The conversations of a lawyer and his client are protected under law. Their case would self-destruct if they attempt to use…"

  Trask interrupted him. "Your batboy's not my client. Nothing that he says to me is privileged. They can use it all, assuming that they have the proper writs approving wiretaps, and the only case they'll have to make is one for criminal conspiracy. If they accomplish that, you're out one lawyer, and they'll have a long head start on proving any other charges filed against you."

  Vos leaned forward, with his free arm resting on the table, conscious of the deputy outside the conference room.

  "Aguire must be dealt with, Nathan. He betrayed me, and he places me in mortal danger every moment that he lives. His depositions will be dealt with in Los Angeles and Washington, but he must not survive to testify. Once he appears in court, we're finished. Both of us."

  The final comment startled Trask, but he requested no interpretation. The attorney had been well rewarded for his service to the syndicate in years gone by, and he would be rewarded on the basis of his success or failure in the present case. Success would leave him rich beyond his wildest dreams. A failure, would, of course, result in punishment.

  "I don't respond to threats," Trask said when he found his voice.

  "And I don't threaten valued friends," Vos said. "A simple statement of the facts for your consideration. Call it an incentive for success."

  Trask folded his hands on his briefcase. "As you say. If there is nothing further?…"

  "I look forward to tomorrow's visit, Nathan. Better news, perhaps."

  "I'll be in touch."

  "Of course."

  Trask signaled for the deputies, and Vos sat passively while they released his shackles, lifting him as if he were an invalid. It wouldn't be much longer now, he told himself. A few more days before the government was forced to play an empty hand.

  He flashed a parting smile at Nathan Trask and let the men in uniform return him to his cell.

  * * *

  The flight to Washington had left Pratt stiff and grumpy, and anxious to complete his business and be gone.
A public servant always travelled coach, and Pratt had spent the past two hours sandwiched in a narrow seat, between a catatonic punk and an obese young mother with a squalling newborn in her lap. His ears were ringing with the child's incessant cries.

  Brognola had an escort waiting for the ride to Justice. Pratt sat back and made the trip in silence, fending off the first attempt at small talk with a grunt-and-shrug routine that he'd practiced to perfection. He was never comfortable in Washington, where rules and regulations were devised by bloodless pencil pushers, rubber-stamped by winners of last year's chaotic popularity contest. When he thought of Washington — the payoffs and corruption, the confusion and stupidity — he marveled that the country had survived as long as it had.

  Some cynics called it Wonderland. No matter what the label, Washington was still the seat of power, where the brass at DEA decided policy and OMB controlled the purse strings. Pratt had always been an agent who preferred the field, where he could use initiative and lay the book aside. It was a damned sight easier to win forgiveness than approval, and he tried to stay away from all the trappings of bureaucracy whenever possible.

  Today, Pratt thought, he was distinctly out of luck.

  He was welcomed to Brognola's office by a smiling secretary, then ushered to the inner sanctum, where the head Fed sat behind a broad expanse of desk.

  "I'm glad that you could make the trip."

  "It sounded urgent."

  "Please, sit down."

  Pratt found himself a chair and settled in. "Is something wrong?"

  "You haven't heard?" Brognola seemed surprised.

  "Look, if there's something I should know…"

  "I'm waiting on a call from Striker. He got jumped last night."

  "Say what?"

  "Some little burg in Bayouland. They toughed it out. Your package is intact."

  "What happened, for God's sake?"

  "State police down there are looking at eleven bodies, one of them an innocent civilian. Background on the other ties them in with the Confederate Resistance Movement. That's a tri-K front group, linked with half a dozen shooting incidents and twice that many bombings in the past two years. They popped an armored car outside New Orleans back in 87, killed two guards — both black — and bagged three-quarters of a million for the cause."

  "I knew Vos had political connections, but I never thought they went that way."

  "We need to get our act together, Felix. I don't like surprises."

  Pratt was working on a comeback when the telephone began to ring. Brognola snared it and listened for a moment, frowned, and said, "Hang on a second. I've got someone here. I want to put you on the speaker phone."

  The line picked up the hollow tone when Brognola had made the switch, and Bolan heard an echo of his own voice as he spoke. "I hope you've got some news."

  "A bit. Your party crashers were a delegation from the sheet-and-swastika brigade. Pure corn pone with an Auschwitz flavor."

  "Understood."

  "You don't sound too surprised."

  "Not really." Bolan frowned at his reflection in the phone booth's dirty glass. "Our friend already mentioned that his playmate has connections with the good old boys."

  "I took it easy with the state police," Brognola said. "They think we're interested in Klan activity, per se. We're letting them believe it was some kind of factional dispute, for now."

  "Seems fair."

  "I asked our friend from citrus country to drop by," Brognola said. "I'm hoping he may have some thoughts on what you're up against out there."

  Pratt's voice was small and faraway. "I don't know what to tell you, Striker. From the looks of things, I'd have to say that anything can happen."

  "I'd be interested in knowing how they traced us."

  "So would I, believe me."

  Brognola's voice interrupted the exchange. "I might have something for you there. We put a shadow on the mouthpiece, and he's shown a sudden interest in Ma Bell. Like, overnight the guy's in love with phone booths. So far, traces show three calls originating out of pay phones in Miami."

  "Which leads nowhere," Bolan said.

  "It isn't quite that bad. We missed the first one, but we're on his phones at home, and someone called him up last night, arranging for a callback in the morning. We had time to find the booth and run a wire. We've got the sleaze on tape, times two."

  "I hope it's useful."

  "Yes and no. We've nearly got enough for an indictment on obstruction and conspiracy, but that's the limit. Everything's been pretty cryptic, and we haven't got a clue on what they're planning down the road."

  "No matter." Bolan played a hunch. "I'm thinking we might try a fast one. Shift back to the first route that we chose."

  Brognola cleared his throat. "If you're sure that's what you want to do."

  "It couldn't hurt. Hey, I appreciate the tip. We're out of here."

  "Stay frosty."

  "All day long."

  Returning to the Jimmy, Bolan slid into the shotgun seat and Johnny put the rig in motion.

  "Call it."

  Bolan didn't hesitate. "Take 84 to Lubbock," he responded, "like we planned."

  * * *

  The van felt strange. Skag was more accustomed to the open air, but he relaxed and held his pace, a safe half mile behind the Jimmy. He dragged on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in the direction of the Wolfman.

  "Better raise the prez and tell him we've made contact."

  "Right."

  The CB crackled for a moment, clearing as a strong, familiar voice came on the air.

  "We're reading. What's the rap?"

  "A solid contact," Wolfman said. "We're on his tail."

  "Where are you?"

  "Leaving Roscoe, north on 84. You want to meet us on the road, or what?"

  "It's taken care of, brother. All you have to do is keep the mark in sight, and make damned sure he doesn't slip."

  "We got it covered like a Trojan, man. This dude ain't going anywhere without a tail."

  "Don't let him catch you at it."

  "Never fear, the Wolfman's here."

  "All right, we're rolling. Call back if there's any change."

  "You got it, bro'."

  Skag kept his eyes fixed on the target, nearly lost against the background of the desert and the distant hills. The paint job was a natural for camouflage, but it wasn't about to save the runners, now. They had already come too far, and they were in too deep.

  It was a shame, Skag thought, that he wasn't allowed to hunt more often. Running crank had its rewards, but everybody needed recreation now and then. A little sport to keep the mind sharp, and if someone should insist on paying Skag for doing what he loved, so much the better. It wasn't every day that you could have your cake and eat it, too.

  "I wonder what these fuckers did?"

  Skag had been wondering, himself, but it was still bad form to ask.

  "Who cares?"

  The Wolfman shrugged. "It's no big deal, you know? Just curious."

  "The contract came from the Colombian," Skag said. "The way I figure it, somebody must be stepping on his toes."

  "Some fucking moron."

  "Yeah."

  They had to be some kind of idiots to mess the with Colombian and try to hide on Mongol turf.

  That went beyond bad form.

  In fact, it added up to suicide.

  12

  Despite his words to Brognola and Pratt, the Executioner didn't intend to double back and catch 1–10 as scheduled. He'd let them think so for a while, diverting any desperate search that Brognola might launch for friendship's sake, thus drawing more attention to their route. And if the leak was close enough to Pratt himself, the hunters might be drawn away, allowing them some breathing room.

  Survival was the game plan and the goal. Progress from A to B and do so with your troops intact. There were no other rules, and if you had to trash a couple dozen — or a couple hundred — savages along the way, hard luck.

&
nbsp; "How far?" Aguire asked him.

  "To Lubbock?" Bolan calculated from the last sign he'd seen. "I'd say another hundred miles should do it."

  "Ah."

  The witness never seemed to tear his eyes away from the unfolding desert, cooled and colored like some kind of science fiction moonscape. The view from Bolan's seat, by contrast, was a glimpse of hard reality, the landscape dry and baking underneath a sun that gave no quarter, recognized no truce.

  He knew that cotton was still grown along the Gulf, but a glimpse of northern Texas, burned and brown, belied the childhood lessons that described how opening the Lone Star State to great plantations, manned by slaves, had pushed the nation one step closer to a catastrophic civil war. There was no hint of Dixie on the road to Lubbock. They had left mint juleps and gentility behind.

  This land had mothered gunmen from the earliest of times, and some of them had gone on to fame or infamy in different generations. Nowadays the Texas gunman drove a sleek Mercedes or a chopped-down Harley-Davidson, and he was less concerned with driving sheepmen off the range or robbing banks than with the sale of speed, cocaine and heroin.

  He studied their surroundings, realizing that the wasteland would be perfect for an ambush. Not because of hiding places, which were nonexistent, but because they seemed to be a thousand miles from nowhere. Anything could happen, and the secret would be absolutely safe with prickly cactus, rattlesnakes and shifting sands.

  It was the perfect no-man's land, a custom-tailored killing ground.

  The warrior settled back to make himself at home.

  * * *

  "We need to think about tonight," Bolan said. Johnny swiveled toward his brother's voice, distracted from a survey of the barren landscape.

  "I've been thinking maybe we should drive straight through," he offered. "Sleep in shifts and try to beat our schedule. That might throw them off."

  The warrior frowned. "I wouldn't want to be out here at midnight, when it hits the fan."

  Another glance across the wasteland made his brother's point. Except for twisting gullies, washed out by erosion, there was nothing in the way of cover, nowhere they could hide themselves or make a stand against concerted opposition. In the open, they'd have two choices: run, or stand and fight, without apparent hope in either case.