Blood Run

by Don Pendleton

  Brognola took the call at home as he was sitting down to eat. His wife knew better than to make an issue of the interruption, and she went ahead without him. Bolan's voice was no surprise at that point, but his message killed the big Fed's appetite.

  "We had a little trouble on the road," he said by way of introduction playing safe on what he knew to be an open line.

  "Like last time?"

  "More or less. No sheets this time. Two-wheelers."

  "On the road, you say?"

  "Affirmative. They picked us up a couple hours south of Lubbock."

  "Just like that?"

  "I'm no believer in coincidence," the Executioner replied.

  "How's everybody holding up?"

  "We're all intact. The package got a little frayed around the edges, but it's functional. We had to get new wheels."

  "I don't know what to tell you, Striker. We can still arrange a pickup, independent of our friends, and try to…"

  "Negative," the soldier interrupted. "I think we might have solved the problem when we ditched the Jimmy."

  Brognola stiffened. "I don't like the sound of that."

  "You ought to hear it play from this end."

  "I'll be looking into this myself," he promised. "If the problem runs that deep, we could be compromised across the board."

  "I'm not in a position to be pointing fingers," Bolan said.

  "That's my job. I've been working on some angles here, but I can see we'll have to push a little harder."

  "What about delivery?"

  "I've been wondering that myself. Our friend might be a little peeved if we preempt him, but I don't see any other way to go."

  "I hate to ask…"

  Brognola didn't need to hear the question. "I don't know," he said before the Executioner could finish. "I could swear we have no problems at the Farm, but otherwise… well, anything's a possibility."

  "Maybe it's time to do some weeding."

  "When we get this job behind us, I intend to make it top priority."

  If they could get the present job behind them. Brognola didn't voice his apprehensions, knowing Bolan would be miles ahead of him in that regard, and pessimism wouldn't serve their cause in any case. They needed action, now, and the big Fed was working on a plan when Bolan made the move to disengage.

  "I'll try to keep in touch," the soldier said. "I don't know when."

  "No sweat. If you can think of anything you need…"

  "I've got your number," Bolan said. "Stay frosty."

  "You should feel the chill from there."

  Brognola lowered the receiver. He didn't feel like dinner now, but he would eat, because his wife had made the effort and he needed time to think.

  They had expected treachery, of course, but if the Executioner's suspicions were correct, Aguire had been marked to die from the beginning, and the Bolan brothers had been nothing more than window dressing, chosen by the enemy within as sacrificial lambs.

  Brognola wiped the dark scowl from his face before he reached the table, digging in as if his meal was still hot and appetizing. There would be calls to make when he was finished, cages to be rattled, but he didn't want to rush it in the heat of anger. Any blunder at this point could rebound against his soldiers in the field with grim results.

  * * *

  Pratt knew the call could only be bad news, but he answered anyway, hoping that he might be wrong. The sound of Hal Brognola's voice erased all doubt, and Felix felt his acid indigestion kicking in before they had disposed of the amenities.

  "My people had another run-in with the opposition."

  "Shit."

  "In spades. Are you familiar with the Mongols?"

  "Badass bikers covering the Texas action, sure. Is it confirmed?"

  "I touched a contact in the capital. There's no mistake."

  Pratt wished that he could reach the Seagram's bottle on the far side of the room. "How are they playing it?" he asked.

  "So far, it's looking like a gang war, but they're not a bunch of idiots down there. In another day or two, they might start talking to Louisiana and comparing notes about that business with the Klan."

  "Another day is all we need," Pratt countered.

  "Right. Striker had to lose the wheels."

  "Say what?"

  "They took some hits. He couldn't take it on the road looking like something from the last reel of Bonnie and Clyde."

  "Hell no, I understand. It's just I had to sign the damned thing out."

  "No sweat. When they deliver in L.A., you'll be a hero. No one's going to be counting pennies then."

  "I hope you're right."

  "Believe it. Bureaucrats are all the same. I thought you ought to hear it from a friendly voice before you catch it on the nightly news."

  "Hey, I appreciate the call."

  "My pleasure."

  First thing Pratt did when he was off the telephone was to pour himself a double whiskey, concentrating on the heat that radiated from his throat and stomach as he drank it down. It didn't calm him, so he had another, stopping after two because he had to keep his head clear.

  Things were going badly, any way you sliced it, and he knew that distance wouldn't insulate him from the problem. When it blew up in his face, the shock waves would be strong enough to flatten him, no matter where he tried to hide. The only way to slay a dragon was to face the bastard in his lair and fucking do it, one-on-one.

  Pratt understood that much, and knew the time had come for him to take things in his own two hands.

  If he wasn't too late already.

  * * *

  Despite the urgent warnings to his unknown contact, Nathan Trask was waiting for the phone call, dreading it. He recognized the voice at once, although it seemed to lack the normal, mocking tone.

  "Good evening, counselor. I hope you're dressed."

  "Of course."

  "Terrific. You're about to take a drive."

  The voice delivered clipped directions to another phone booth, at an all-night supermarket half a mile from Trask's address. The lawyer shrugged into a jacket and tucked a licensed.38 inside his belt. A friendly judge had granted him a carry permit on the theory that his clients might have enemies. Tonight would be the first time Trask had packed a weapon in defense against his so-called friends.

  The booth was occupied when Trask arrived. A teenaged girl was discussing her complexion problems with a friend and smoking like an amateur, determined to appear sophisticated in her halter top and skintight jeans. Trask waited, rather than attempting to dislodge her from the booth, which would inevitably cause a scene. His contact would be fuming, but it was a risk you took when using public phones to beat the heat.

  Five minutes wrapped it up, and Trask was pleasantly surprised to hear the girl say she had to hustle or her parents would be frantic. Trask had never married, never seriously contemplated children, and he watched a perfect argument for birth control strut past his car, all hips and wiggles as she moved across the parking lot. Somebody's daughter, hanging out at night and flaunting it like any other tramp. Her parents would be frantic? Christ, they ought to have their head examined.

  The phone was ringing as he reached the booth.

  "Hello?"

  "The phone was busy, counselor. What's going on?"

  "Some kids. You picked the booth, remember?"

  "I sincerely hope that you're not jerking me around."

  Fatigue and anger met head-on, and Trask couldn't contain himself. "Goddamm it, you're the one who chose the time and place. I didn't leave my home to play some kind of childish guessing game or be insulted. If you have a message, spit it out."

  "You sound a little testy, counselor."

  "One minute, and I'm leaving."

  "Shouldn't take that long," the voice informed him. "We've encountered further difficulties with our interception of the package."

  "Christ, I thought you people were supposed to be professionals."

  The tone became defensive, granting Trask a m
inor victory. "I blew a judgment call, okay? It's being taken care of."

  "Like the last time?"

  "Negative. I'm cutting out the bullshit with the middlemen and sending in the first team. Tell your client not to worry. We've got time."

  "And he'll be doing time, if you can't do your job. Can you imagine how he would reward a failure in this case?"

  The caller obviously could imagine, but he tried to play it cool. "I've never stiffed a paying customer. You tell the man I'm taking charge of this in person. That should put his mind at ease."

  "Somehow, I doubt it."

  "Watch the headlines, counselor. You won't be disappointed."

  "It's not me you need to be concerned about."

  The line went dead, and Trask allowed himself a cautious smile as he retreated to his car. The news was bad, of course, but he had managed to assert himself a bit with the anonymous connection, forcing the other man into a defensive posture. It felt good for a change, after skulking in shadows and following instructions from a stranger he'd never seen before. Their latest terse exchange reminded Trask of court, when he was sniping at a prosecution witness, springing traps his opposition was too clumsy to anticipate.

  Trask relished the sensation of control, but it was fleeting. In the morning, he'd have to tell Vos that another plan had failed. Aguire was alive and that much closer to Los Angeles. Trask had a faceless stranger's word that everything would be all right, but it wasn't enough.

  It was, he thought, not even close.

  His mood was broken, and he concentrated on his driving, unaware of the dark sedan that followed him discreetly. The lawyer's mind was focused on tomorrow, and another trip to jail.

  * * *

  They opted for security and bypassed several motels. Bolan selected an unmarked side road and followed its serpentine track for five miles, until it terminated at a smallish, man-made reservoir. The brothers scouted out their chosen campsite, found no signs of any recent visitors and decided they should be secure until the morning.

  "It's funny, finding this out here," Johnny remarked. "I don't see any signs of irrigation."

  Bolan shrugged, examining the reeds and cattails that had overgrown the tall banks of the reservoir.

  "I suppose it might have been for stock, at one time," he replied. "I'd say no one's been here for a while."

  "It's just as well. I've had enough high times for one day."

  Bolan grinned. "Don't count on sleeping through the night. We're still on watch."

  "I don't mind watching," his brother replied. "I just don't want to see anything."

  Aguire helped them build a smallish fire, collecting dry mesquite and piling it beside the van. Bolan couldn't see the lights of traffic bound for Lubbock, but there was no point in taking chances. They would shield the fire and douse it after heating up the canned food they had purchased at a Kwik-Stop west of town.

  "You think they've shot their wad?" Johnny said, while they waited for the pork and beans to simmer.

  "Vos has lots of friends," he said. "I wouldn't count them out just yet."

  "We should have lost them, if you're right about the homer in the Jimmy."

  "Should have. Let's not count our chickens."

  "Is all this really worth it?"

  Bolan raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  "I mean, we're spending three days on the road and killing off a couple dozen guys. We could have saved the time and hassle if we whacked Vos first thing."

  "I thought about it," Bolan said, "but part of this I do for Hal, because he asked. The rest of it I'm doing for the system."

  Johnny looked as if his ears were suddenly receiving in Chinese.

  "The system? Did I hear you right?"

  "The prosecution's breaking new ground here, with Vos. If they can pull it off, more power to them."

  "And suppose he walks?"

  "He won't get far," the Executioner responded, "but that's not the point. I never took this on to scrap the system, or to change it. From the evidence I've seen, it's still the best around, when it's allowed to function. When it works, I like it fine."

  "And when it doesn't…"

  "Then I try to iron the rough spots out, and intercept the players who outgrow the rules."

  "Let's hope you're right."

  "Let's hope."

  The Executioner fell silent as they ate, but he couldn't dismiss his brother's doubts. They were echoes of the questions he'd asked himself a thousand times since kicking off his one-man war against the savages. The final answers had eluded him thus far, and Bolan only knew that he had taken on the war because he could. It was within his power, and the possibility — however marginal — translated into duty recognized.

  He thought about the mountaineer who had explained his bids to conquer Everest with the quip "Because it's there." Mack Bolan's war was founded on a similar approach to life. His enemies were there, and someone had to intervene before they swallowed Mother Earth and started looking for dessert. One man might not defeat them, but at least he had a chance to slow them down.

  16

  Leo Turrin hadn't looked at the reports before he laid them on Brognola's desk. He found himself a seat and waited while his friend broke the seal on the manila folder and studied its contents with a scowl that could have curdled milk.

  "Here, tell me what you think."

  Two sheets of graph paper skimmed across the desk, and Leo caught them short of free-fall. One was labeled Subject A, the other Subject B. Both sheets displayed the zigzag patterns of an automatic stylus, like the readings from a hyperactive polygraph. Technology wasn't his strong suit, but he recognized the voice prints as he viewed them side-by-side, then one above the other, finally superimposing the pages and holding them up to the light.

  "I'd say you've got a decent match."

  "It's perfect, damn it."

  Turrin slipped the pages back across the desk.

  "So let me guess — it's not good news?"

  "The first sheet is a printout from a call received by Nathan Trask, the night before last. The transcript makes it plain he's running interference on a contract let by Vos."

  "Aguire."

  "Right. Plus Striker and the kid."

  "That's one chart."

  "Yeah." Brognola's tone was bitter. "And the second comes from a recording I made on my home phone, just last night."

  Turrin felt his stomach knotting. "And the lucky winner is?"

  "Our old friend, Felix Pratt."

  Leo stiffened. "Are you sure? I mean, there's no mistake?"

  "You read the graphs yourself."

  "We checked him out."

  Brognola shook his head. "We checked him out through channels. Obviously there were one or two things that we didn't catch."

  "Like Vos, for instance."

  "Who knows how he covered up his tracks? A numbered bank account in the Bahamas. Cans of money buried in his own backyard. Who gives a damn? We missed it, and the bastard's been one step ahead of us since Striker hit the road."

  "The homer?"

  "We're negotiating with the Rangers for a total shakedown on the Jimmy. It'll be there."

  "Pratt?"

  "The circuit court in Florida is grinding out a warrant as we speak. There's also one for Trask. We've got his fat ass on obstruction and conspiracy, for sure. I wouldn't be surprised if he rolled over."

  More insurance, Leo thought, in case the Bolans lost it on the roads. "It couldn't hurt."

  "We're prosecuting Vos, no matter what becomes of the DEA and its indictments. Twenty years won't balance life plus ninety-nine, but I can guarantee the bastard's not about to walk."

  "You figure bagging Pratt will take the heat off Striker?"

  "It could only help, but Christ, who knows? By now, Godzilla could be waiting for them on the road."

  "We don't have any kind of fix?"

  "We don't even know what they're driving. They're somewhere between Lubbock and L.A. That tell you anything?"

&n
bsp; "It tells me where I'm needed."

  "Leo…"

  The big Fed thought better of his protest and finally nodded.

  "What the hell. You have a starting place in mind?"

  He shrugged. "If it was me, I'd want to try the shortest distance possible between points A and B. Let's say they've got a leg up on New Mexico by now. That still leaves Arizona."

  Brognola produced a highway atlas from his desk and started thumbing through its pages. "They've had trouble on the interstate," he said.

  "And they've had trouble off the interstate. I'm betting that they'll try to make up time."

  "Okay." Brognola spun the book around and shoved it under Turrin's nose. "Which way? They could go south to catch I-10, or north to I-40."

  "Split the difference," Leo said. "I'll land in Phoenix. Either way it breaks, I'll have a chance of picking up their trail."

  "Or picking up the pieces."

  Turrin kept his face impassive. "I'm not writing Striker off."

  "Nobody's writing anybody off. We have to be prepared, that's all. In case they blow it."

  "Then we do the next best thing," he said, "and kick some ass."

  * * *

  Trask wondered if it was too late for him to find another line of work. He wasn't ready to forsake the law, but there were other clients, corporations and conglomerates, all begging for the kind of legal talent he possessed. There would be no more need of visiting his clients in a holding cell, no risk of winding up in jail himself.

  The deals with Vos and others of his kind had been extremely lucrative, with some excitement thrown into the bargain. Trask had relished traveling in fast company, rubbing shoulders with men whose decisions literally encompassed life and death. But lately the excitement had begun to pall. He understood the risks and knew he'd been lucky, so far, to avoid indictment on his own.

  The problem was that Vos wouldn't allow him to resign. It wasn't something they had talked about, but Trask had seen what happened to defectors from the "family." Most often, they'd simply drop from sight, but those who surfaced were reminders of the power wielded by Ernesto Vos. Like a possessive lover, the Colombian reacted violently to any hint of infidelity, and the divorce was always final.