"You let me have Aguire, and I call the bad boys off. How's that? You get your life, and what the hell, I'll see what I can do for Green, if Cipriano's people haven't nailed him yet."
"Has anybody ever told you you're a sweetheart?"
"This is strictly business, Blanski. I don't have a thing against you guys. Hell, I don't have a thing against Aguire, but I've got to shut him up. There's too much riding on the line. We're talking major bucks, here. Fucking governments are tied up in this thing."
"You're just a patriot at heart, is that it?"
"Let's just say I'm looking out for number one this time around."
The warrior propped his back against the base of the conveyor belt and fed another round into the launcher, double-checking to be certain that the action on his M-16 hadn't been damaged by his recent fall.
"You're asking me to sell out everything that I believe in, Pratt."
"I'm asking you to live. What's wrong with that? You got some kind of death wish?"
Bolan had begun to work his way along the flank of the machine that gave him cover, careful not to drag himself along and thereby give the move away. He thought he had a fix on Felix, now. A few more yards and he'd let his weapons do the talking.
* * *
Aguire saw two figures running toward him, moving shadows in the firelight, and he hesitated, wanting to be sure before he opened fire. The clincher was an overcoat the taller man wore, selected more to hide illegal hardware than to offer warmth. He didn't need to see their faces after that. They were the enemy.
He let them close the gap to twenty feet before he squeezed the trigger on his captured submachine gun, ripping the gunners from left to right and back again. The men dropped to the ground, unmoving, lifeless faces turned in silent supplication to the stars.
How many left?
Aguire didn't care. Explosions and a steady stream of automatic fire around the old refinery had changed his plans. The van was out. He had decided it was time to go first-class, and one of the surviving limousines would do just fine… providing he could reach one, slip behind the steering wheel and get the hell away from there before somebody blew his freaking head off.
Nothing to it.
From his shelter, he could see that most of the attacking gunners — those still on their feet — had gathered on the far side of the street. The burned-out point car was a smoking hulk, and three other limos and the tail, a standard four-door, were more or less unscathed by the explosions. For safety's sake, Aguire concentrated on the two cars at the rear of the procession. They were closer than the rest, and neither vehicle showed even superficial damage from the fire.
The doors wouldn't be locked, but getting in was only half the battle. He'd have to count on finding keys in the ignition, since the hostile troops wouldn't allow him time for any fancy work beneath the dashboard. If he blew it, he was dead. Case closed.
And if he made it, then what? He would shake this fucking ghost town for a start, and keep on rolling south until he crossed the border onto friendly soil. From there, he thought, life just might take care of itself.
Aguire chose a moment when the gunners he could see were shifting, turning their attention in the general direction of the old refinery. They hardly concentrated on the east-side buildings, now that most of them were flaming hulks. There could be no threat from that direction, now.
He crossed the deadly open space in one concerted rush, pulse hammering against his eardrums as he slithered to the four-door that was last in line. He grasped the handle on the driver's door, then thought about the dome light and decided not to risk it. He would have to get inside, if there were keys, but opening the door to check each car in line was bound to give him away.
He poked his head above the windowsill, but harsh, reflected flames prevented him from seeing anything inside. Aguire pressed his face against the glass and cupped his hand to serve as blinders, cutting out the glare. He shifted his position twice, to guarantee that he saw everything there was to see.
No keys.
The image of an old TV commercial flashed across his racing mind. A public service spot designed to cut the risk of car theft. Close-up on an average citizen removing his ignition keys while an announcer cautioned. "Don't help a good boy go bad."
But what about the bad boy who was bound to get his ass shot off unless he found himself a ride?
He wormed his way along the line until he reached the nearest limousine. If he could get it started, he'd have to back the monster up a yard or two before he could complete the necessary U-turn. That increased exposure time, but he suspected that the limo would be armored, and he only needed ten or fifteen seconds, after all. No sweat.
Aguire made the stretch again. At first he thought the keys were an illusion, but he closed his eyes for several seconds, opened them again, and felt himself relax inside. In his imagination he could hear flamenco music, taste the enchiladas and frijoles, with a cold cerveza on the side.
If only no one saw the dome light…
Carlos opened the door and tossed his gun inside. He slid across the driver's seat like he was sneaking up on some sweet thing to cop a feel, then tucked his legs in hastily and eased the door shut behind him. So far, so good. He dared not risk a glance to see if anyone had noticed him. Instead he groped around until he found the pedals with his feet and prodded the accelerator, making sure the engine had sufficient juice to start first time around. He gave the key a twist, and was rewarded by a rumble as the engine came to life, responding instantly. He hauled himself erect and put it in reverse.
All hell broke loose. A dozen guns unloaded on the limousine, flaying paint along the right-hand side. The shock-proof glass became milky, veined with tiny cracks like ancient porcelain. He floored the pedal, rammed the four-door back a good six feet and slammed the gear shift into D — for "Dead," unless he made his turn tight and clean the first time.
The gunfire seemed to die away as Carlos swung the tank around. A few stray bullets rattled off the trunk, and he was ready to congratulate himself on making good his getaway when volley number two came in on target, plastering the driver's side. Involuntarily, he threw both hands up to protect his face, and in the microsecond of forgetfulness he lost it and felt the limo drift, a front tire rolling up across the wooden sidewalk.
Crushing impact snapped a rotting four-by-four in half and dropped the flaming hotel awning on his windshield, blinding Carlos as he grappled with the steering wheel. He smashed a second upright and a third, two wheels up on the sidewalk. Then the limo's weight broke through the woodwork. He could hear the engine screaming as he pressed the pedal to the floor, but he was going nowhere.
Automatic fire was drumming all along the driver's side, and Aguire had to move before the leaping flames made a connection with the limo's fuel line. There was one way open, and he took it. Pushing through the limo's right-hand door, he stepped out into hell.
* * *
Johnny missed Aguire by perhaps ten seconds as the Cuban made his run to reach the cars. He watched Aguire check the four-door, moving on to try the limousine, and he could feel the mission going up in smoke as Carlos placed his hand upon the door latch. Johnny could have dropped him then, but killing their witness wasn't in the game plan. He'd have to find another way.
The hostile gunners found it for him, laying down such concentrated fire that Carlos lost it on the turn and drove up on the smoking sidewalk, literally bringing down the house, and then some. Johnny had an anxious moment when the tank bogged down, but then he caught a brief glimpse of Aguire wriggling across the seat. A door sprang open, and the Cuban made his break, high-stepping through the flames like something from an old Three Stooges comedy.
The gunners had him spotted, tracking with their weapons, waiting for a clean shot if Aguire managed to escape the furnace. Johnny came up firing, the carbine in his right hand and the mini-Uzi in his left. Two hardmen dropped, then three, and their companions scattered in a search for cover. Johnny chase
d them with a parting burst and turned in time to see Aguire clear the Oresville funeral pyre.
His hair was smoldering, and there were blisters on his face, but otherwise he seemed remarkably unscathed. Aguire stumbled into Johnny, almost losing his balance, and the younger man hauled him back around the corner, out of sight, as probing rounds began arriving from across the street.
Aguire was unarmed, but Johnny kept him covered all the same. "You had me worried, there," he said, and smiled. "I thought you were about to leave without me."
* * *
From a hundred yards, it sounded like the Battle of the Bulge. Leo Turrin cocked his Colt revolver, making members of the Bureau SWAT team jog to match his pace. He envied them their Kevlar vests and M-16s, but there had been no time for suiting up when they received the hurry call, and he wasn't prepared to sit the action out while strangers did his fighting for him.
If there was any consolation, he derived it from the fact that Bolan and the kid — or one of them, at least — must be alive. The streets of Oresville had become a shooting gallery, and Cipriano's men were pros enough to hold their fire unless they had a target… or unless someone was shooting back. If Bolan and his brother had enough fight left to draw that kind of mass response, there still might be a chance to bring them out alive.
They reached the outskirts of the mining camp five minutes after touchdown, their arrival noted by a pair of Cipriano stragglers who had taken up positions in the middle of the street. One guy packed a stubby shotgun, and the other held an Ingram pressed against his chest. They could have saved it with a simple hands-up gesture, but the smoke and fire were in their blood, and they were feeling more or less invincible.
With emphasis on less.
The bozo with the Ingram stopped a round from Leo's Colt and collapsed, dead before he hit the ground. His partner tried to use the shotgun, but a storm of fire from half a dozen automatic rifles lifted him completely off his feet and hurled him ten feet backward, like a scarecrow in a hurricane.
They passed by the bodies, and Turrin scooped up the 12-gauge without a break in stride. Across the street, on Leo's left, a limousine was pulled up on the sidewalk, nearly buried in a pile of flaming rubble. The wooden structures on his right were burning now, disgorging hardmen who had gone to ground inside. The Bureau SWAT team forged ahead, accepting the occasional surrender, shooting fast and accurately in the face of armed resistance.
Turrin didn't bother counting bodies as they made the sweep. His eyes were drawn by movement in the shadows to his left, and he veered off in that direction, leveling his captured shotgun as he closed the gap.
"Okay, you got me," Johnny said, emerging from the smoky shadows with Aguire at his side.
There was a lump in Leo's throat that made his voice sound small and faraway. "Are you all right? Where's Striker?"
"Yes, and I don't know." The kid looked worried. "I haven't seen him since the shooting started. If I had to guess, I'd say he went to get the van."
"Where's that?"
"Down there." He glanced along the crumbing row of structures toward a hulk that stood alone, impervious to heat. "In the refinery."
* * *
The silence worried Pratt. He pictured Blanski creeping through the darkness like some kind of jungle cat, prepared to spring if Felix let his guard down for a fraction of a second. He was wounded — Christ, he had to be — but was it bad enough to kill him? Would it even slow him down?
Pratt cursed the darkness, wishing he could catch a glimpse of Blanski's blood trail. It was possible the guy might be unconscious, even dead by now, but there was too much risk involved for Pratt to leave his precious cover yet, before he knew.
How many men had Blanski killed this week? One more would make no difference to him in the long run, but it would make all the difference in the world to Felix Pratt.
"I can't believe you're taking this so personal," he called to Blanski, buying time and hoping he could make the bastard answer him. "I'm sorry you got suckered into this, believe me. I had orders. If I didn't follow through and ask for help from Justice, someone would've pegged me, sure as shit."
No reply.
Pratt shifted to his left, keeping the van in plain sight, covering the direct approach. Whatever happened, Blanski wasn't driving out of there without a fight.
"You're worried that I'm jerking you around," he said. "Okay, I understand. No problem. Give the word, and I can whistle Cipriano's crew chief in here. He can guarantee safe passage. What the hell, I'll let you hold him while I take Aguire off your hands. You clear on out of here and drop him somewhere when you're feeling safe. How's that?"
The silence was oppressive, stifling. Pratt imagined sounds of movement on his flank and spun in that direction, nearly squeezing off a shot before he caught himself. The bastard couldn't be behind him. He was hit for Christ's sake. Blanski was a soldier with his tit caught in a wringer, not some kind of fucking superman.
"I'm getting tired of talking to myself," Pratt complained.
"So talk to this."
The voice was dangerously close, but Pratt reacted smoothly, pivoting to raise his pistol, sighting down the slide at something that appeared to be a human silhouette. Dead meat, he thought.
And then the world exploded in his face.
* * *
The Executioner ducked back and down before the 40 mm round exploded its concussion battering his eardrums. Twisted chunks of steel flew through the air, and he heard a crack of glass that told him some had reached the van. No problem. They could roll without a windshield if they had to. Anything to see the last of Arizona and a town reserved for ghosts.
Was that a scream inside the thunder of the blast? He rose, shook off the transient dizziness produced by blood loss and held the rifle steady as he left his cover, stalking Pratt.
The Fed was slouched against a crusher used in bygone days to pulverize uncounted tons of rock. His scalp was split and streaming blood, hair matted to his forehead. He was dust and grit from head to foot, but there was a fanatical determination in his eyes. An automatic pistol, braced in a two-handed grip, was aimed at Bolan's chest.
"I didn't want to kill you, man," he said.
"You haven't yet."
"That's right." Pratt grinned. "An oversight. I'm playing catch-up."
"Want to tell me why?"
"You've heard the song, man. It's the lure of easy money. What's so hard to understand?"
"Betrayal."
"Right. The fucking Administration betrayed me when they pinned the badge on. I've been scrubbing out their toilet bowl for fifteen years, and I've got squat to show for it. The guys I pop are out in twenty minutes, and they're driving Jaguars, Porsches, limos. I want a taste, that's all."
"Somebody tell you it would be a glamour job?"
"Not even close," Pratt snarled. "I bought the Stars and Stripes routine, right down the line. No fucking lie. I meant to turn these bastards every way but loose, and clean this country up. Can you believe that?"
"So? What happened?"
"It was like a miracle. I looked around one day and found out I'd been blind for thirty years. How's that for a discovery? I found out right and wrong is in the eye of the beholder, and I wanted to be holding money for a change."
"You have to know it's over," Bolan told him.
"Yeah, you got that right… but not for me."
A new voice joined the dialogue. "I'd guess again, if I were you."
Pratt fired a shot at Bolan, nearly scoring. The Executioner fell back, his balance failing in a sudden rush of dizziness. He triggered off a burst that missed Pratt cleanly, saw the Fed recoiling and squeezing off two rounds in rapid-fire toward Leo Turrin.
Pratt dodged behind the van and out of sight, heels crunching on the gravel as he ran. Pain lanced through Bolan's shoulder as he struggled to his feet, but in his heart he knew that he could never catch his man before Pratt reached…
The sliding doors.
"Pratt, wait!"<
br />
A creak of rusty metal was swallowed by the detonation of a last grenade. Bolan stood his ground while Turrin made a brief inspection of the mess, then moved to join him.
"Sucker makes a flash exit. Can I offer you a lift?"
"Aguire?"
"He's a little singed around the edges, but his vocal cords work fine. He's with the kid."
"Okay."
"Okay? That's it? I bring the cavalry to save Will Kane and tame the West, and this is what I get? I don't suppose that you could spare a 'Howdy, pardner'?"
Bolan smiled and slipped an arm around his good friend's shoulders.
"Nope."
Epilogue
"Officially the deal's not set, but I suspect that Vos will cop a plea." Brognola's voice was heavy with disgust, its flavor undiminished by their poor connection. "It's a coup, of sorts, I guess. The cost of trial was estimated at eleven million dollars. That's conservative, without appeals."
"Will he do time?" Mack Bolan asked.
"Hell, yes. I wouldn't want to guess how much, but twenty-five is probably the average on a deal like this."
"Which puts him out in ten or so with good behavior. Then what?"
"Deportation, just like any other undesirable."
"And then he's back in business."
"It's a possibility," Brognola granted, "but I'm not convinced his heir apparent will be glad to have Vos back. Nobody likes to be the king pro tern, and there's the other thing…"
"What other thing?"
"Well, jeez, it's really an embarrassment, but it turns out we've got this leak in Wonderland, ourselves."
"I'm listening."
"The damndest thing," the big Fed continued. "Somehow the word got out that Vos was singing for his supper. Not just cutting deals, you understand, but giving up his home boys."
"That's a funny kind of leak," the soldier said.
"I thought so, at the time." Brognola hesitated. "Listen, I assume you'll need some R and R?"
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