Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  The warrior was convinced that he'd been set up, but that didn't mean everyone in the operation was rotten. It did mean, though, that someone wanted to stop him from getting to Tony Gregory.

  But that list of «someones» could be a yard long. Rivera had enemies by the dozen. If the CIA wasn't going ahead until Gregory was sprung, then any of Rivera's enemies had a motive. Guillermo Pagan was certainly at the head of that list, but someone inside the Agency could also have an ulterior motive in keeping Gregory on ice. That one was a little harder to figure, because motive was dependent on gain. Unless it was known what someone stood to gain, there was no way of guessing who it was who stood to make that gain. Once again, any of Rivera's enemies had to head the list. But how did he, whoever he was, get enough inside information to be able to blow Bolan's cover?

  The only way to answer that question was to get out of Nicaragua, which was easier said than done, Bolan thought. He slapped a bug that was crawling down his collar, then shifted his back away from the vine-covered bricks.

  He watched the sun creep across the sky, drifting slowly toward the Pacific. He could do nothing but watch and wait. Once in a while, to relieve the monotony, he would change his position, trying to ease the stiffness that seeped into his joints like some insidious fluid.

  He heard a siren in the distance and was certain that someone had reported him. Pulling the stolen automatic from his belt, he examined it for the first time. It was a good weapon, a Makarov. As long as the odds were, he was still in the game.

  Bolan could have used a map of Managua. His briefing had included a quick study of the city's layout, but there hadn't been time to commit it to memory. Unfortunately his map had been in the suitcase, which now sat in an office somewhere, probably still back at the airport. All he had was his wallet and a mix of local currency, U.S. paper and traveler's checks.

  The siren faded away, and he relaxed a little. It was one thing to be a fugitive, but it was another to be treed like an opossum, a human noose slowly tightening around you, squeezing you until you burst from the pressure.

  By five o'clock he was getting restless. He got to his knees, and a voice said, "Hola, señor." Bolan whirled around to find himself staring at a face with a scraggly beard.

  "Hola," he replied.

  "American, no?" The man grinned.

  "How did you know?"

  "The accent, señor. You gringos never get it right."

  "What do you want?"

  "I've been watching you for quite a while. I know things. I know you have been hiding. I know you don't want the police to know you are here. I don't know why, of course." He smiled, shrugging his shoulders. "But I think I know enough to feel secure, eh?"

  "So what do you want from me?"

  "Want? Nothing, señor. I don't want anything. Maybe, though, I have something you can use, eh? Maybe I can sell you something you need. Maybe you have some Yankee dollars in your pants."

  "What have you got to sell?"

  "What do you need? A disguise, maybe? A place to hide? Transportation?"

  "Right. I pay you to hide me, then somebody else pays you to turn me in. Good business for you. No good for me."

  "Amigo, do I look like that kind of man?"

  "You look like a beggar."

  Another siren sounded in the distance and Bolan gave a start. He knew the beggar had noticed it.

  "Very well, I see plainly that you have no need of a place to hide. Buenos días, Señor Belasko."

  "Hold on. How did you know my name?"

  The beggar grinned. "I told you. I know things, señor."

  Bolan jerked the stolen pistol out of his shirt. "You don't just know something like that."

  "Forgive me. I guess my sense of humor got the best of me. It has been a long time since I have been able to use it." The man shrugged. "Actually, I followed you from the airport."

  "What the hell's going on?"

  "I don't know, señor. All I know is that you did not make it through customs. I have to think that someone had informed the government of your arrival. More than that I can only guess."

  "Then guess, amigo."

  "It looks as if there is a leak stateside. Señor Hoffman thinks he knows who is responsible. But he won't say."

  "Hoffman's all right?"

  "Sí, he's fine. He's waiting for you."

  "We have to get out of here," Bolan said. "They've got to be looking for me."

  "I have already made plans for that. We will stay here for a little while. A junk wagon will come through soon. It will stop on the other side of this wall. We will climb in back and be taken to your destination."

  "Who are you?"

  "You don't need to know. It is enough for you to know that I am a friend. You can put the gun away now, I think."

  "Not yet. Not until I know whose friend you are."

  "Very well." The beggar got to his feet and stretched, looking for all the world like a hobo who had just awakened from a nap. He looked across the vacant lot, stretched again, then let his arms fall to his sides. He started to shuffle away.

  "Where do you think you're going?" Bolan demanded.

  "I think I should take a look around."

  "Stay here."

  "I don't think that's a good idea. It is better if I do what I normally do. People are used to seeing me around here. Why do anything to upset them, eh? I'll be back before the wagon gets here."

  He turned his back and walked off. Bolan watched him helplessly. He couldn't shoot the man, and the guy might be telling the truth. He had to be. How else would he have known both his and Hoffman's names?

  Another siren shrieked in the distance, and the warrior pressed closer to the wall. He didn't like the feeling of vulnerability that washed over him. He had to do something.

  Bolan started moving along the base of the wall. About fifteen yards away another wall, no higher than the first, intersected at right angles. Reaching the corner, the warrior got to his knees and raised his head above the ruins, keeping the vines and tangled weeds in place like a veil. He could see the first intact buildings about two hundred yards away, but there was no point in trying to get to them. The back of a row of small shops was the closest, but they were probably open for business, and he wasn't about to walk in and ask to use a telephone.

  Ducking again, he moved along the shorter wall, checking over his shoulder from time to time and taking it slowly. When he reached the end, he lay flat and peered around the jagged end of the stone just above ground level. All he could see was another wall about thirty feet away. It was like a maze, with the ruined foundations, most of them no more than three feet high, joining one another at odd angles. The rubble had been removed and the walls were all that had been left behind. It was eerie staring out over the expanse of weeds, knowing that he was crawling over hundreds of ruined lives.

  Bolan slipped around the corner and found himself in the middle of a box canyon of ruined brick about two and a half feet high. He was better protected than he had been, but it didn't make him feel any less vulnerable. He looked up at the sun, which had finally started to sink in the sky. He was hot and sweaty, and the bugs swarmed around him incessantly.

  Then, off in the distance, he heard a strange sound — a steady hammering as if someone were pounding on the cobbled street. It seemed to draw closer as he listened. Under the hammering was a more delicate sound, like the tinkling of small bells. Bolan raised his head above the wall and pushed some of the vines aside to peer down the empty street.

  Wobbling slightly, a wagon glided toward him, its canvas cover shuddering as the iron wheels scraped over the uneven street. Two ragged horses, their hooves clipclopping steadily on the smooth stones, pranced like circus animals. Sitting on a bench seat, an old woman held the reins in her hand, snapping them now and then to keep the gait steady. She looked like something out of nineteenth-century Europe, with a rag knotted under her chin and an apron draped over her chest and lap.

  As he watched, the wagon slowed, fina
lly coming to a halt near a break in the stone wall. Bolan turned the corner in time to see the beggar climb down from the back of the wagon. He tugged a canvas sack after him and stepped through the break in the stone. The old woman climbed down from the wagon and waddled after him.

  The beggar broke into a grin when he saw the warrior, but said nothing. He knelt and spread the mouth of the sack open, waving Bolan toward it with a flourish. "Your coach, señor," he whispered.

  Bolan slipped into the bag feet first. The beggar zipped it shut, leaving an opening at one corner, just large enough for Bolan to slip two fingers through. He would be able to open the bag himself if he had to.

  The next thing Bolan knew, he felt the bag rise at either end. A moment later his head banged onto the wooden floor of the wagon and the tailgate creaked closed.

  Then the wagon lurched into motion.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  "Where's the stuff?" Arledge whispered.

  "Van's coming in after we get inside." Monzon waved impatiently and moved toward a side door in the warehouse, which had been spray-painted with a variety of interesting graffiti. Arledge laughed at one of the lines. "Hey, Pedro, got a pencil? I want to write this broad's phone number down."

  "Vince, don't lose it on me, amigo. We're walking on a very thin wire here. You step wrong, you slice off your foot."

  "Relax, Pedro. DeCarlo's not gonna try anything. Just relax, man."

  Monzon ignored him, yanked the door open and waved Arledge through. The interior of the warehouse was pitch-black, except for a large block of gray at the far end where a single freight bay was open to the air.

  "DeCarlo?" Monzon shouted.

  His voice bounced around the huge cavern, blurring into an unintelligible bellow that slowly faded away. There was no answer. Arledge shifted his grip on the Galil. He felt a trickle of sweat run down between his shoulder blades. It seemed to hesitate, stopping for a moment at every vertebra until it picked up enough extra moisture to push on down to the next. Every step made him tingle.

  "DeCarlo," Monzon called again. Again the summons bounced around, then spiraled away into silence. No answer. "I don't like this."

  "Maybe he's not here yet," Arledge suggested.

  "He's never late. You know that. It isn't like him, man. I sure as shit don't like it. Back on out of here."

  "Hang on, Pedro. Don't be so hasty. If we walk out on a million plus in cold cash, you better have a damn good reason to give Willie."

  "Fuck Willie. He doesn't have to stand here and listen to the damn rats squeaking in the garbage."

  Headlights suddenly sliced the warehouse in two. Arledge blinked away the glare, turning his head until his eyes adjusted to the harsh light.

  Footsteps clacked on the concrete floor, and a figure passed through one beam, momentarily darkening the glare a bit.

  "You got the stuff, Pedro?"

  The voice was disembodied, seeming to emanate from a spot high up near the ceiling. Arledge recognized it as belonging to Frank DeCarlo, but the acoustics played such tricks that it still gave him the creeps.

  "All set," Pedro shouted. He started to walk toward the car. Arledge hung back a little, then drifted to the left before following Monzon. DeCarlo didn't say another word. All Arledge could hear was the sound of his and Monzon's shoes on the dried paper and broken glass on the floor. Every step seemed to have a hundred tiny echoes.

  After what seemed to be an eternity. Monzon moved in between the beams of the Mercedes. It was possible to see DeCarlo's features now, hazily but clearly enough to be certain it was he.

  "Kind of a show biz entrance, isn't it, Frankie?" Monzon asked.

  "Hey, I've got big bucks in the trunk. I'm supposed to come in here like Pinky Lee? You ought to know better than that, Pedro."

  "Yeah, Frankie, I guess so."

  "Besides," DeCarlo continued, "I been hearing things on the street."

  "What kind of things?"

  "Oh, you know. Rumors. The kind of shit that makes me nervous."

  "You nervous, Frankie? I can't believe that."

  "Don't bullshit me, Pedro. You got the stuff for me or not?"

  "I've got it, I've got it. Relax."

  "If I want to relax, I go to the beach. In here…" DeCarlo pointed at the floor"…I do business."

  "All right, let's do it. Vince, get the van in here."

  Arledge nodded, moving farther to the left and sprinting along the wall toward the open bay. One of DeCarlo's hardmen followed. The CIA man wanted to turn around, but didn't want to give the man the satisfaction. He stopped in the open bay, blinked his pocket flashlight one long, two shorts, then two longs.

  He heard the engine rev, then the van jumped out of the shadows, careering through the bay door. Once inside, the van's lights went on, stabbing toward the rear of DeCarlo's Mercedes. It skidded to a halt alongside the car. The driver banged the door open and climbed out. "Okay, Pedro?" he asked.

  "Get out of here, Chuckie. You're done for the night."

  The driver, a slender black kid with a mustache that weighed almost as much as the rest of him, waved a skinny arm and snapped a badass salute. Then he skipped toward the door and was gone.

  "Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you, Pedro?"

  "Hey, Frankie. It's good shit. You know it and I know it. You want it, and we both know that, too. You change your mind all of a sudden, hey, no problem. I drive the van and Vincenzo here takes my car. No hassle, Frankie. At this price I can find somebody else."

  "I didn't say I didn't want the stuff."

  "What, then?"

  "Forget it, Pedro. Just making conversation, that's all."

  "No, it isn't all, Frankie. You were playing big shot. Like maybe you want it, maybe you don't. I don't have time for that crap. Check it out and let's get this over with, all right?"

  "Take it easy, amigo. Take it easy."

  "I'm a busy man, Frankie. I've got things to do." Monzon walked around the corner of the van and opened the rear door. Fifty plastic bags, stacked like bricks, five deep, stretched across the open doorway.

  DeCarlo cocked his head to one side, nodding casually. "Fifty keys, huh?"

  "Yeah, fifty. You count that high, Frankie?"

  DeCarlo hefted one of the bricks. "Which one should I test, Pedro?"

  "Doesn't make any difference, Frankie. They're all the same."

  "That right?"

  Monzon slammed the door. "Let's go, Vinnie. I've had it with this asshole." He brushed past DeCarlo and went to open the door of the van. One of DeCarlo's hardmen pumped a round into the chamber of his shotgun, but DeCarlo held up his hand. "Hold it, Dom. Pedro is just trying to show me he's a serious man. He doesn't like wasting time. That's good, right? I mean, I don't like wasting time, either, so I can understand. He should lighten up a little, but no problem. He can work on that. A mil and a half will probably help him relax." He turned to Monzon. "That right, Pedro? You relax a little, and maybe the next time you won't be so uptight, right?"

  "Frankie, how can we have a next time when we don't even have a this time?"

  DeCarlo nodded toward the rear of the van. Dom tucked his shotgun under his arm and opened the back door again. He clicked a switchblade open, jabbed one of the bricks in a middle row and took a little of the white powder on the tip of the blade.

  He tasted it cautiously, a thoughtful expression on his thick features. He smacked his lips and nodded. "Nice. Real nice."

  DeCarlo seemed to relax all at once. "We've got a deal, then, Pedro."

  "Until I see the money we've got no deal."

  "Dom, show him the money."

  The hardman closed the van and walked to the Mercedes. He snapped his fingers and the truck popped open. "Thank you, Richie," Dom said, waving at the driver's window of the Mercedes.

  "Check it out, Pancho," he said.

  "Pedro," Monzon snapped.

  "Pedro, Pancho, Cisco. What the fuck's the difference?"

  "Maybe you'd rather buy some Pep
si while you're here."

  "Pepsi, what are you talking about?"

  "Coke, Pepsi, what the fuck's the difference?" Monzon said.

  "I see your point."

  He leaned in, pulled one of two identical briefcases out of the trunk and balanced it on the rear fender. Monzon opened it, clicking the latch and keeping one eye on Dom. When the lid swung up, he glanced at the money, then grabbed a stack of bills. All crisp thousands, they whispered as Monzon rubbed them with his thumb. Fifteen stacks all like the first. A quarter of a million dollars. Arledge edged a little closer, looking over Monzon's shoulder while the bald man checked the other stacks.

  "They're consecutive," DeCarlo said, "but you said it was going offshore, so I figured it didn't matter."

  "It doesn't," Monzon replied. He leaned in and grabbed the other briefcase, handing it to the hardman. "Open that for me, will you, Ron?"

  "It's Dom. You know, Dominick."

  "Yeah, yeah. Just open it."

  When the second briefcase was opened, Monzon counted it, this time more quickly, closed it and said, "See you later, Frankie."

  "You give me a call, Pedro. I can move all you've got."

  "Same price?"

  "Same quality, same price. No sweat."

  "I'll let you know."

  DeCarlo climbed into the rear of the Mercedes. He rolled the window down and waited for Dominick to start the van. Monzon stood with his arms folded across his chest as the Mercedes and the van made a tight turn and disappeared through the freight bay door.

  Monzon set the briefcases side by side on the ground. "Get the car, will you, Vincenzo?"

  Arledge sighed. "Yeah, I'll be right back, man." He walked toward the door, scuffing his feet in the trash on the floor.

  "Take your time, Vincenzo. I mean, this is only money," Monzon called after him.

  Arledge mumbled something but didn't change his pace. Monzon cursed under his breath. When Arledge stepped through the bay door, Monzon shouted. "All right, Kelly, you can come on down." His voice rumbled around the ceiling, coming back to him in a garbled mutter.