Pratt experienced a sudden rush of pure adrenaline. He'd been worried that their prey might drive straight through and risk another running battle on the interstate, with more police and innocent civilians caught in the cross fire. This was infinitely better, with a stationary target cut off from the highway and escape, compelled to stand and fight on unfamiliar ground.
"The chopper ready?"
"Warming up right now."
"Let's go."
As they were moving toward the heliport, he quizzed the mafioso on logistics, learning that a flying squad of thirty men was on the way from Flagstaff to their destination, packing everything except the kitchen sink.
"Don't let them jump the gun," he cautioned. "I want confirmation before the shooting starts."
"Is there a problem here? You think somebody put a ringer in?"
Pratt shrugged the question off as he prepared to board the helicopter. At the outset, he'd been convinced one homer in the Jimmy should be adequate to meet his needs. The second had been tossed in almost as a whim, but it was paying off in spades.
The chopper had two pilots plus four passengers — a pair of Cipriano's hardmen riding shotgun with Pratt and the syndicate underboss. Felix did the math in his head, coming up with odds of thirteen to one against Blanski and company. If he couldn't do the job with those numbers, it was hopeless, a write-off.
He thought about the hardware Blanski and his backup had been issued back in Jacksonville, the ventilated bodies they'd left in Texas and Louisiana. Were they running short of ammunition yet? How many of the Don's men would make the drive from Flagstaff a one-way trip?
No matter. Pratt had obligations to fulfill, and Vos could deal with Cipriano later, when the smoke cleared. In the meantime, Pratt would have his cash in hand and would get the hell away from there before Brognola or his own damned people started sniffing up his trail.
How long? They might be on his case already, but it would take time to run him down, and time was one thing that Aguire didn't have. The stoolie's life was measured out in minutes now, and Pratt felt tremors of the same excitement that he'd once experienced when wrapping up a major bust. In those days, when he still believed in serving man and fighting for the good guys, there had been a certain kick to laying out a raid and watching all the pieces fall together. It had taken time for Pratt to realize that he was going nowhere, battering his head against a cold brick wall of public apathy, corruption and conspiracy. The kick had vanished swiftly after that, and he'd learned to care for number one above all else.
He turned to Solly, raising his voice to be heard above the engines.
"How long?"
"Thirty, forty minutes. Take it easy. They aren't going anywhere."
He settled back and watched the brilliant desert sunset through his window. By the time they reached their destination, it would be fully dark, and that was fine.
In fact it was ideal.
* * *
"They made your boys. It's going down."
The words chilled Leo Turrin's blood, and his knuckles whitened as he clenched the telephone receiver.
"Where?"
"The way I get it, west of Flagstaff, twenty miles or so. Some little, nothing road that doesn't go anywhere. I guess they're camping out."
"Who's rolling?"
"Solly's coming up from Prescott with the guy who let the contract, plus they got some troops from Flagstaff on the road."
"How many, dammit!"
"Twenty, thirty… I don't know. Some troops is all I heard."
"Okay. I owe you one."
"I won't forget that."
The line went dead, and Turrin grabbed his jacket from a hook beside the door, already bellowing for action as he moved along the corridor, a proverbial bull in the FBI china shop.
"It's on," he snapped. "They're rolling… Twenty, maybe thirty guns from Flagstaff, and the crew chief flying up from Prescott."
The Phoenix agent-in-charge kept pace with Turrin easily, his face a study in dejection. "There's no way for us to catch them. They're too damned close already. It'll take an hour just to get there."
"Then we don't have any time to waste."
The tip had come from an informant in the Cipriano Family, a convicted dealer who had bargained down a twelve-year sentence to thirteen months by rolling over on his capo, feeding back selective information to the FBI. Initially reluctant to involve himself in Turrin's effort, he'd undergone a change of heart when Leo mentioned certain files that might be dusted off for revaluation if Aguire died in Arizona.
Now they had at least a rough location, and a pair of Bureau agents would be working Highway 40 west of Flagstaff by the time their troops were in the air. If they could eyeball Cipriano's gunners, it would be a lock, and only time would stand against them.
So much time.
He calculated Pratt would need a good half hour, maybe more, to fly from Prescott to the kill zone. On arrival, he'd have to stroke the troops a bit and chart some basic strategy — ten minutes, give or take. Perhaps the same to get his people in position for the kill. That put his rescue force a quarter hour later, more likely thirty minutes, and he wondered if the Bolan brothers could hold out that long.
A quarter hour under fire could be a lifetime, Turrin knew. Beyond that point the nerves were frayed, and physical reactions lagged, became disjointed. Any cop would tell you that the «normal» confrontation with an armed assailant lasted maybe ten or fifteen seconds, start to finish, and beyond that time, you either had a siege or bloody chaos on your hands.
He prayed that Bolan would be able to delay the end, hold off his enemies until the cavalry arrived. It didn't matter now how Pratt had found Aguire and his escort. They were dead if Turrin and his backup didn't reach the scene in time.
Three choppers waited on the pad, with six armed agents boarding each as they arrived. He found a seat in number one, buckling in beside the agent-in-charge, and nodded the signal for takeoff. In another moment they were airborne, speeding north, the desert underneath them painted crimson by the setting sun.
From where he sat, the landscape seemed to be awash in blood.
* * *
Working with a flashlight tucked beneath his arm, Johnny stood in gritty dust and finished rigging up a final booby trap. The frag grenade, its pin removed, fit loosely in a rusty can that he'd salvaged from a dump behind the dining hall. The can had been secured with nails, chest-high, inside the entrance to the general store, a simple tug line fastened to the door itself and looped around the neck of the grenade. If anyone should push the door back, they'd have two seconds to regret it as the lethal egg swung free and detonated on a level with their waist.
Around him he could hear the small, nocturnal sounds of rodents stirring, rummaging for food among the ruins of a dream gone sour. Predators might stalk them in the shadows, all a part of nature's food chain, but the only hunters plaguing Johnny's mind were human with a taste for blood and easy money.
He had rigged the back door first, and now he made his exit through a nearby window, taking care to check his pockets for the safety pins before he closed it down behind him. He'd have to pull the traps again before they left, and in the meantime he was counting on the moonless night to cover evidence of traffic through the window.
As he moved along the sagging wooden sidewalk, Johnny wondered what missing residents had called their camp, and what it had been like to mine for gold or silver in another, simpler time. Hard work and little else, he finally decided, glancing at the midnight shadows of the nearest ravaged mountainside. He knew the "romance of the West" was largely Hollywood's invention, with a boost from fiction writers, but there was a certain air about the camp, diminished though it was by passing time, that he couldn't deny.
At one time this had been the cutting edge of the frontier. The veins of precious ore that petered out in 1920 — something that had ignited range wars, genocidal conflict with the native Indians, seducing men and women from the East to leave their hom
es and their established lives behind, risk everything with pick and shovel underneath a broiling sun. It was the story of America in microcosm: people taking reckless chances — sometimes paying with their lives — in the pursuit of El Dorado.
Johnny shook himself back to the present. If anyone came looking for them here, it wouldn't be the Wild Bunch or the Younger gang, and Wyatt Earp wouldn't be waiting in the wings to save them by the time the credits rolled. You could save your high-noon showdowns for the late show on nostalgia night. In the real world, the dead didn't get up and stroll away to a director's cry of "Cut!"
He made a small adjustment to the Uzi's shoulder strap and turned his back on dreams. The darkness swallowed him as he moved off to find his brother.
* * *
Aguire knew that he'd have to time his move precisely, or he'd be sure to fail. His escorts were professionals, and they had proved themselves repeatedly since Jacksonville. It wouldn't be a simple task to take them by surprise, but he was running out of time.
He'd been left alone while Green and Blanski set their troops, and Carlos used the time to make a fresh examination of his captured pistol. It was a 9 mm automatic, with four of the original eight rounds still in place.
Aguire hoped he wouldn't have to kill the men responsible for keeping him alive the past two days. If he was forced to do so, he'd feel a measure of regret. But he had learned to set his principles aside and act on instinct, looking out for number one at any cost. Self-preservation had compelled Aguire to accept the deal Pratt offered him, exchanging testimony for his freedom, and survival likewise forced him to abandon that agreement now.
Aguire realized the DEA couldn't protect him through the weeks or months that would precede a trial in federal court, much less the years tied up in various appeals if Vos should be convicted on his testimony. There would be no testimony now, because Aguire had decided to remove himself from the arena. He was bailing out.
He couldn't go on foot, however. He'd need the van, and that meant a confrontation with his escorts. In the worst scenario, he was prepared to shoot them in the back, or while they slept, but he'd much prefer to take their vehicle, their weapons, and allow them both to live. Aguire hoped they would be reasonable.
Where would he go? Mexico, for starters, which was so close he could almost taste the enchiladas.
If he set off by midnight in the van, Carlos thought that he could be across the border by the time dawn broke. Vos had many friends in Mexico, but it wouldn't be Aguire's final destination. Once he managed to collect some cash, the world would be at his command.
How long could he survive before Vos found him? Months? A year or two? Indefinitely? Anything was better than the certain death that waited for him in Los Angeles. If he continued westward with his escorts, then his life was measured out in days, perhaps in hours.
Breathing deeply to control the nervousness he felt inside, Aguire tucked the pistol inside his belt, the handle pressing tight against his spine. When they were finished with their games, and he had both of the men together, he would make his move. There was no point in waiting until midnight: it was dark enough for him to begin his journey.
Outside he heard the sound of footsteps on the wooden sidewalk, drawing nearer. One man, Carlos thought, and cursed at the delay. With the decision made, he felt his own anxiety increasing, raising beads of perspiration on his forehead, even though the night was cool. He held both hands in front of him, relieved to find that they weren't trembling.
They would be steady when he held the gun. They would do what must be done if he had to kill his escorts.
* * *
A growling in his stomach reminded the Executioner that he needed to eat. They had purchased cans of food, along with bread and beverages, in Flagstaff, but he'd forgotten about the provisions and the hour in his haste to make their sanctuary more or less secure. He couldn't stop a hostile force from rolling down the dusty street, but he could damn well treat the enemy to a surprise or two before the fight was joined.
It bothered Bolan that the day had passed without some sign of their pursuers. Could they have shaken off the hounds that easily?
He would accomplish nothing, Bolan thought, through idle speculation. Whatever happened, he'd done his best to square the odds, and they'd have to play the rest of it by ear. If they were able to avoid detection through the night, they had a straight run into California come the morning, and their passenger would be delivered to the waiting arms of Justice and the DEA.
It ran against the grain for Bolan to conduct defensive operations. He preferred a swift offense, with the advantage of surprise, but playing escort stacked the odds against him, giving his opponents the edge. In any combat situation, the defender was essentially a passive target, marking time until the enemy revealed himself and praying that the first shot was a good, clean miss. Defenders chose the killing ground, where possible, but their opponents chose the time, the method of attack.
His stomach growled again, and Bolan turned away from the refinery, where he'd done his best to secure their van. They wouldn't travel far on foot, and Bolan had debated staying with the van all night, deciding it would be a grave mistake to split their tiny force. If trouble came, he wanted Johnny by his side, and they could figure out the rules together.
Bats wheeled above his head in search of insects as he started down the street. The town was barely two blocks long, by modern standards, with the dining hall-saloon on one side, sandwiched between the general store and the hotel. Across the street, the empty hull of a machine shop and garage stood close beside a vacant office structure, where the company had doubtless kept its books and doled out pay on Friday afternoons. The rocky hills surrounded them on three sides, and the narrow, unpaved road would be their only exit from the box.
As it would be the only angle of attack.
18
The helicopter circled once before it landed so that Solly and the pilots could check out the reception committee on the ground, confirming identities before they committed themselves to the descent. Pratt counted one scout car and four of the big Caddy crew wagons lined up on the shoulder of the highway, looking for all the world like a stalled diplomatic parade or a funeral procession. He didn't like either analogy, and tuned the thoughts out as the pilot took them down to a perfect landing.
By the time Pratt had his feet on the ground, the gunners were emerging from their cars. He didn't bother counting, trusting Solly's word that there were thirty men, knowing that a gun or two should make no difference, either way. Pratt felt conspicuous, and he was anxious to be out of there before another motorist — or, worse, a cop — rolled by and caught their little huddle on the roadside.
"Listen up, you fellas," Solly ordered, silencing the group. "You got some idea of why you're here. Tonight, I'm speaking for your don, and this man…" a big hand settling on Pratt's shoulder "speaks for me… unless I tell you different. Pay attention to him, now. We haven't got all fucking night."
Their rendezvous coordinates had been confirmed by radio, and their pilot — something of an amateur historian, as it turned out — had briefed Pratt on the layout of their target. He had hoped to catch Aguire and his escorts in the open, but the ghost town sounded small enough for thirty men to cover easily. If necessary, they could burn it down around Aguire's ears.
"You may or may not know about our target," Pratt began, immediately lowering his voice when he detected signs of nervous strain. "A few miles off the highway, there's a ghost town, mining camp… whatever. Half a dozen buildings still intact, for what it's worth. You'll have to cover all of them at once. We're hunting three men. Two of them have automatic weapons and they know their business. I won't try to snow you. They've been wasting people for the past two days and skating clear. I need them dead, but more that than, I need to see them dead. Is everybody square on that?"
There was a general murmur of assent, and Pratt turned back to Solly with a shrug. "That's it," he said.
"Okay," the
underboss announced, "before we roll, I want the lead car using parking lights, and everybody else blacked out. I hate to use the lights at all, but what the hell, it's gonna be too fucking dark without them, and I don't want anybody driving off the mountain. Hang in close behind the lead car, then fan out and cover all the angles once you get there. We'll be tracking you upstairs and coming in to close the back door when you bust the joint. No questions?"
There were none, and Solly cracked a smile. "All right," he said, "let's do it."
They were back inside the chopper and lifting off as the procession began to move. The driver of the lead car kept his headlights on until he reached the entrance to the access road, then switched them off in favor of his parking lights, as ordered. Pratt was thankful that he didn't have to drive the narrow, winding road in almost total darkness.
"Circle wide," Solly told the pilot. "Give them time to get there, and then come in from the rear. We don't want anybody slipping out on foot."
"Yes, sir."
Pratt slipped a hand inside his jacket and removed the automatic pistol he had carried since the DEA went «modern» two years earlier. Before that, it had been a standard Smith & Wesson.28, and while he had been called upon to draw both weapons frequently, he hadn't fired a shot from either one outside the target range.
He wondered what it felt like to eclipse a human life, and knew that he might soon find out. It had to beat the grim alternative, and Pratt reflected that a million dollars could relieve the wildest nightmares. He would never have to sleep alone, and he could leave the night-light on, if necessary.
Still, before he started spending the reward, Pratt had to earn it. There were three men to be killed, and if he had to do the job himself, he would. No pain, no gain.
Blood Run Page 18