Trask was gloomy as he trailed his escort through the checkpoints leading to the High Power tier of the Jackson lockup. Vos would be flying west that evening to keep his court date in Los Angeles on Thursday, and the lawyer thought a change of scene might lift his spirits. At the very least, he'd be treated to a tour of a different jail.
Trask entered the tiny visiting room, taking his usual seat across the table from Ernesto's empty chair. Five minutes passed before the guards arrived with Vos and shackled him in place, retreating in lockstep like some kind of mutant centipede.
Vos faced him squarely, reading bad news on the lawyer's face. "Again, they fail?"
"Your contact asked me to inform you that he's going out to handle things himself. He guarantees results this time."
"This time? The idiot! He should have dealt with this himself from the beginning."
"I'm surprised you tolerate him."
"He has his uses," Vos replied. "But I confess to second thoughts. When this is finished, I believe he will be, also."
Trask wasn't surprised to hear another death sentence pronounced in such casual terms, nor did he grieve for his anonymous contact. At the moment, his full attention was focused on personal concerns, the risks involved in serving Vos.
"They haven't given me a time for your departure, yet," he said. "I've booked a flight to LAX for six o'clock. I doubt if I'll be able to confer with you this evening — though I'll try, of course,"
"Of course." Vos pinned him with electric eyes. "What is it, Nathan?"
"Hmm?"
"Your heart is troubled."
"I'm concerned," Trask countered. "If Aguire testifies, there's nothing I can do to tip the scales. So far, your inside man's been going nowhere fast."
Vos smiled. "Whatever happens, Nathan, you'll be taken care of. I promise you."
Trask didn't like the sound of that. He laced his fingers, clenched them tight to keep his hands from trembling on the tabletop. He caught the deputy's eye over Vos's left shoulder, and nodded to indicate that their visit was finished.
"I'll see you in Los Angeles."
"Perhaps we'll go to dinner afterward," Vos said. "A celebration of your brilliant victory."
The door swung open, and the khaki centipede retrieved its prey, Vos putting on a poker face as he was marched back to his cell. Trask joined his escort on the short walk to the elevator, thinking that discussion of a celebration sounded premature.
It might turn out to be a wake instead.
The suits were waiting for him when he cleared the final checkpoint, just where he would normally begin to relax, shaking off the claustrophobic air of prison.
"Nathan Trask?"
"Who are you?"
"FBI."
He recognized the government credentials, and managed to stand his ground despite the fact that everything around him had begun to spin.
"We have a federal warrant here for your arrest on charges of obstructing justice, and conspiracy. You have the right to remain silent."
He tried to bluff it out. "This is preposterous."
"You have the right to speak with an attorney prior to any questioning."
"I am an attorney."
"Yes, sir." The agent smiled, his eyes invisible behind a pair of aviator's shades. "You are."
* * *
Highway 84 turned into 60 as they crossed the border into New Mexico. Mack Bolan, riding shotgun, calculated that approximately two-thirds of their journey was behind them. They had crossed five states, or part of some, and they were still alive, their mission still on track.
So far.
And yet he couldn't shake a nagging premonition of disaster. They had lost the homer — if there had been a homer — when they ditched the Jimmy. There had been no further opposition on the highway, and the Rangers at a border checkpoint waved them through without a second glance, confirming Bolan's suspicion that the trooper he'd saved was running interference with a false description of their vehicle.
So far, so good.
Bolan should have been relaxing in the home stretch, but he knew that Vos couldn't afford to let it go. They'd be moving into greater danger as they neared Los Angeles, and the warrior had a hunch that different wheels were not about to save them from the coming storm.
They skirted Albuquerque, stopping off for lunch outside of Gallup, at a drive-in where the fry vats simultaneously canceled flavor and the threat of botulism. Bolan wolfed the meal and washed it down with cola that was watery and bland. The very best of desert haute cuisine. When everyone was done, he took the wheel and let his brother navigate.
"How much to Flagstaff?"
"Right around two hundred miles," Johnny answered. "We should be there around four o'clock."
The soldier flipped a mental coin. They had a choice of stopping for the night or driving straight through to Los Angeles; hoping that the enemy would miss them in the darkness. When he thought about the prospect of a highway ambush after nightfall, Bolan realized there wasn't much choice at all.
"I hope you're up to one more night of sleeping in the car," he said.
"I'm easy."
"Should we not go on?" Aguire suggested. "They'll be searching for us everywhere, by now."
"That's why we're stopping after Flagstaff," Bolan answered. "They'll be searching on the roads. We can't rely on luck to see us through another running skirmish."
Johnny turned to face Aguire. "Have you got a handle on the Arizona action?"
"It's beyond my territory," the Cuban replied. "I know Vos has an understanding with the syndicate in Tucson, but I don't know any of the details."
"That would be Don Cipriano's territory. Maybe we'll get lucky. They could concentrate the search down south."
"It doesn't matter," Bolan told him. "Flagstaff's quicker. Once we go to ground, they'll have all night to run the roads and burn out on the game. Tomorrow, bright and early, we're across the line and home. With any luck we should be in Los Angeles for brunch."
With any luck.
* * *
The van was fitted out for cargo rather than for comfort, and Aguire was forced to sit on the floor behind the driver's seat. The double doors in back had windows, offering a glimpse of sun-bleached sky. When he rose to kneel between the seats and scan the highway every hour or so, the desert always looked the same. He wondered whether they had entered Arizona yet, but didn't care enough to ask.
The Cuban's body was a patchwork quilt of bruises from the fall he'd taken during the encounter with the Mongols. Band-Aids covered lacerations on his hands where he had slalomed down the heap of cans and bottles toward his confrontation with the biker who had nearly killed him.
Frowning, Aguire studied Blanski's profile as the man drove. The American had saved him twice from death in two days' time. It was the first and only time a stranger had done anything of substance for Aguire, and he wondered at Blanski's motive.
He didn't believe in altruism, having dealt with politicians and policemen, televangelists and big-name entertainers in his time. They all responded to the dollar sign without exception, and Aguire had convinced himself that men were basically commodities, like sheep and cattle, stocks and bonds. You paid your money and collected merchandise or services upon demand.
It troubled him to think that Green and Blanski were exceptions to the rule. His faith was shaken, and it would be that much harder to dispose of them when they had served their purpose.
Settling back against the bulkhead of the van, he felt the pistol pressed into the flesh beside his spine. It was a lightweight automatic, lifted from the mangled biker in the rubbish pit. He hadn't used it yet, because the time had not been ripe. He wasn't inclined to lose his bodyguards before Los Angeles was in sight.
Tomorrow, perhaps, when they were closer to the city. It would be a relatively simple exercise in treachery, and he could disappear before the hunters understood what he had done.
Tomorrow.
It would be his last — and only — chance
.
* * *
Don Cipriano's people met the plane in Phoenix. They helped Pratt collect his luggage then marched him outside, crowding close around him in the waiting Cadillac. The capo hadn't come himself, but he wasn't expected. Everything was understood between them, and arrangements had been made. The underboss, a hulk named Solly, was in charge of operations, and had orders to cooperate with Pratt in any way that wouldn't compromise the Family.
"You got the gear?" Pratt asked.
"Four scanners, yeah." If Solly was impressed by DEA technology, he hid it well.
"I'll give you frequencies before your people hit the road." He pulled a map of Arizona from the flight bag at his feet and spread it out between them. "I'll assume they're in the state already. No point concentrating on the border, and besides, there's too damned many ways across."
"I'm listening."
Pratt stabbed a finger at the map. We'll need a scanner here on Highway 8, near Gila Bend. Another here on Highway 10, near Buckeye. Number three goes up on Highway 40, west of Flagstaff. Any way they try to run, they'll have to pass a checkpoint."
"That leaves number four."
"A mobile unit. Put it in a chopper, ready to respond no matter where they surface. If they go off-road, we've got them covered all the same."
"One chopper for the fucking state?"
"If we have options, I'd suggest we base it in the neighborhood of Prescott. You can jump off either way from there, to cover highways 10 and 40 in a clean half hour. A couple backup cars on Highway 8 can slow things down until the chopper makes it, if they have to go that far."
"Okay. We got some friends in Prescott. I can make a call."
"I'll wait there with the helicopter."
Solly's smile was condescending. "Yeah, I heard you wanted some of this yourself."
"I tried to farm it out," Pratt said. "It's hard to find good help these days."
"Ain't that the truth." The mafioso lit a fat cigar and filled the Cadillac with acrid smoke. "Well, you can put your mind at ease," he said. "You're playing in the big leagues, now. We don't fuck up, like certain yokels I can name."
"I'm sure my client will be most appreciative for all your help."
"We're counting on it, pal. I mean, like, nothing's free. You follow?"
"I believe we understand each other."
"Beautiful. I figure understanding makes the world go 'round, with just a little muscle on the side."
Pratt folded his map and stowed it in the flight bag. He wasn't concerned with Mafia philosophy, but it was Cipriano's ballpark now — and Solly's, by extension. Pratt wasn't a member of the home team anymore.
And where was home? He'd be missed in Florida, inevitably raising questions, and his answers would be weak at best. When he was finished with his job for Vos, once he had claimed his bounty, logic told him he should find a friendly, tropical climate where the heat was less intense. Pratt knew of places where a man could live forever on a million dollars.
And Pratt knew that forever was a long, long time.
* * *
"We missed the bastard, Chief. I'm sorry."
Hal Brognola's knuckles whitened as he clenched the telephone receiver, but he kept the burning disappointment from his voice. "What have you got?"
"A neighbor saw him bailing out early this morning with a suitcase. Delta had him booked to Phoenix, via Houston. They confirm he made the flight. With the Texas layover, that put him on the ground at three o'clock our time."
"Did you touch base with Arizona?"
"Right away. They've got a shadow on the Cipriano spread in Tucson, but I doubt he'll be invited down to see the Man."
"Let's cover everything, in case."
"You got it. Phoenix is a problem, with the lag time, but they're checking out hotels, motels — the usual. If someone met his flight and took him on from there, you'll need an APB to pick him up."
"Hold off on that," Brognola said. "Our best hope now is that he might not know he's burned. He might touch base and try to string us out for extra time."
"You really think so?"
It was damned unlikely, but Brognola didn't know what else to hope for. "Let's just say I've got my fingers crossed."
"How's the DEA reacting?"
"Does total panic ring a bell? They're pulling every case he worked on in the past ten years and working on a damage estimate. They don't know when he turned or how he's helped the opposition in the meantime."
"Jesus, what a mess."
"Their problem," Brognola responded gruffly. "Ours is making sure we head him off before he makes the tag."
"That's Phoenix. He'd have to be a total idiot to come back here."
"Nobody ever said he was a genius."
"You've got a point."
"We need to get a look inside his bank account or safe-deposit box."
"I'm already working on it. IRS is helping pull some strings."
"Whatever. Keep me posted, will you?"
"That's affirmative."
He severed the connection and tried to put his thoughts in order as he thought about the call that he'd make to Arizona. Leo would be on the ground, by now, and Brognola saw irony in his proximity to Felix Pratt. The timing was close, and with Pratt's scheduled layover in Texas, Leo must have been hot on his heels.
But where the hell was Felix now?
If he was under Cipriano's wing, the big Fed knew that they might never find him. He could disappear without a trace — alive or dead — and they'd always be in doubt, until some girlfriend got a postcard from Honduras or a troop of Boy Scouts stumbled on his bones some day.
Not good enough.
Brognola wanted Pratt, as much for using Bolan and his brother as for selling out the badge. Corruption in a lawman was despicable, but it was something the man from Justice had learned to live with through the years. Betrayal of a private trust was something else, and if it cost the life of Striker or the young man known as Johnny Gray…
He shook himself to break the morbid train of thought. Anticipating a disaster would accomplish nothing. He had to head the bastards off before they intercepted Mack and Johnny.
Searching for a needle in a haystack would have been a picnic in comparison.
Try searching for a live grenade in quicksand, where you lost no matter how you played the game.
Brognola's face was solemn as he lifted the receiver and began to dial.
17
When violet shades of evening overtook them west of Flagstaff, Bolan started to search for a place to spend the night. The highway ran through stunted mountains here, and while they posed no challenge to the Rockies or Sierras, it was still a relief to the eye after nearly a thousand miles of desert flatlands. Pine trees lined the slopes in places, and when Bolan roiled down his window, there was a cool snap in the air.
They were descending on the westward slope when Bolan spotted an access road, its course and terminus concealed by trees. He took it on a whim, deciding they could chase it for a mile or three and still have fuel enough to double back if they were disappointed. Four miles later they found a safe harbor.
The ghost town was of relatively recent vintage, circa 1920, and the scars inflicted on surrounding hillsides told him it had been a mining camp at some point in its history. The "residential section" — tents and clapboard shacks, if it was typical of western mining towns — had long since been dismantled and removed, or else had fallen victim to wind and rain. Commercial buildings at the heart of town had been constructed with a greater permanence in mind, and Bolan picked out the general store, a combination dining hall and tavern, and a small hotel, perhaps intended for the use of company officials and assorted VIPs. The rusted hulk of a refinery dwarfed the other buildings, and a tiny chapel had been thrown up in its shadow, almost as an afterthought.
"We're off the map," Johnny told him. "Welcome to the Twilight Zone."
"Don't tell me you're afraid of ghosts."
"You must be joking. Rattlesnakes an
d scorpions, okay, but ghosts? No problem."
Bolan parked in front of the refinery and left the engine running with the brake set as he left the driver's seat to check out the building. The giant sliding doors had been designed for ore trucks, and it took some muscle for the Executioner to budge them after sixty years of standing idle, but momentum did the job once they began to roll. Inside, the place was spacious, dark and dusty, with conveyor belts and other old machinery fallen into disrepair, abandoned when the local vein gave out. It sent an eerie chill down Bolan's spine to think those doors had last been closed decades ago, and it was possible that no man had crossed that threshold since.
He backtracked to the van and climbed behind the wheel. "No ghosts," he said, "but from the smell, I think we might have mice the size of German shepherds."
"Great. I saw that on the late show," Johnny said. "Peter Lorre played the cheese."
Bolan drove the van inside and killed the engine, pocketing the keys before he joined his brother to unload the weapons. "I suspect we'll find a better deal on lodgings down the street," he said. "The hotel seems to have a vacancy."
"The question is, do they have beds?"
"Don't get your hopes up."
Johnny shouldered a satchel of grenades and ammo clips, the CAR-15 and full-sized Uzi tucked beneath his arms, while Bolan packed the mini-Uzi and the M-16, with two more ammunition satchels.
"Looks like a clean house to me," the younger Bolan replied.
"Okay. We'll find a place to sleep and rig a few surprises, just in case the local ghosts get restless."
Johnny flashed a grin and said, "They slimed me, Egon."
Bolan grinned back and asked his brother, "Who you gonna call?"
* * *
Pratt was working on a tepid cup of coffee when Solly barged in on him, smiling like a hungry crocodile. "We just made contact," he announced.
"Where are they?"
"North of here and west of Flagstaff. Off I-40 somewhere, on a little dipshit road to nowhere. I've got people covering the road. There isn't any other exit."
Blood Run Page 17