"It was pushing things to get those extras that you wanted, but I think we ran down everything you noted on your shopping list. I'm on the hook for these myself, so try to bring back anything you can."
"With any luck, they won't be needed," Bolan said.
"Whatever. Better safe than sorry, right?"
Pratt took the keys from Bolan, opened up another latch and dropped the tailgate. Turning back toward Bolan he looked smug, self-satisfied.
"Gentlemen, choose your weapons."
There were plenty to choose from, Johnny thought, as he joined his brother to survey their arsenal. Spread across the rear deck of the Jimmy were several items, starting with the pair of M-l assault rifles. One was the carbine model with a shortened barrel and telescopic butt stock, while the full-sized version had a 40 mm M-203 grenade launcher mounted under the barrel. Next, a matching set of Uzi submachine guns, full-size and mini, the former featuring a folding metal stock. Beside the SMGs, he saw a pair of handguns, including the Israeli-made.44 Magnum Desert Eagle that his brother had requested and a sleek Beretta 92-S for himself.
Four canvas satchels took up the rest of the space in back, and Johnny checked each in turn. The first contained a dozen extra magazines and cleaning gear to serve the M-16s. The second held a similar supply of ammunition and equipment for the Uzis, while the third was packed with magazines, loose rounds and cleaning gear for both the handguns, including a custom silencer for the Beretta. The fourth and heaviest bag contained six frag grenades and a dozen 40 mm shells to fill the M-203 launcher.
"You've got enough stuff there to stop an army," Pratt observed. "Or slow it down some, anyway. I'm hoping we can keep this little expedition on the quiet side."
"My thoughts, exactly," Bolan replied. "But since you haven't found a way to guarantee safe passage…"
"Better safe than sorry. Yeah, I know."
Johnny reached out and picked up the carbine as his brother chose the full-sized M-16.
"What's going on?" Pratt asked.
"A little checkup," Johnny told him. "Nothing personal, but if these pieces break down in a crunch, there won't be time to send them back for factory repairs."
"By all means, be my guest." Pratt smiled, but it was strained, as if his personal integrity had been insulted.
No tools were necessary for fieldstripping the M-16. Johnny cleared the weapon, removing its magazine and checking for live rounds in the chamber before he slid the bolt forward, pressed out the rear pin and opened the rifle. With swift, practiced movements, he stripped the firing pin assembly, the extractor, the buffer assembly and drive spring, carefully studying each component in turn. When he was satisfied, he reassembled the rifle, snapped its magazine into the receiver and set the weapon back in its place.
The Uzis were next, and Johnny took the full-sized model, pulling its 32-round magazine before he pressed the catch in front of the rear sight, lifting the cover away from the receiver. He raised the bolt, disengaging its forward end and lifting it clear, along with the SMG's recoil spring. The extractor was next, followed by removal and inspection of the stubby barrel and the trigger mechanism. Finding everything in order, Johnny reassembled the weapon, fed its magazine into the pistol grip and replaced it on the deck.
His examination of the Beretta barely took a moment, with removal of the slide and an inspection of the firing mechanism. Johnny tried the silencer, unscrewed it and returned it to the satchel, loading up and chambering a round before he stowed the side arm in its custom shoulder rigging. Bolan had checked his 93-R through in luggage on the eastbound flight, but he was studying the Desert Eagle with an eye for detail, nodding when he felt that there was nothing more to see.
"Okay, we're on."
Pratt grinned. "You guys don't want to try them out? Blow up a house or something?"
One more dud, and he retreated into silence.
"Are we ready?" Hal Brognola asked.
Johnny caught his brother with a sideways glance and smiled.
"As ready as we'll ever be," the Executioner replied.
* * *
Carlos Aguire stubbed out his cigarette and checked his Rolex watch for the third time in sixty seconds. He was nervous, but it didn't pay to let your feelings show in situations where your life was riding on the line. Experience had taught Aguire that his enemies would seize on any show of weakness and destroy him if they could. Where strength was unavailable, its mere illusion sometimes did the trick.
"Should be here any minute," one of Pratt's associates informed him, drifting toward the window for a peek through Venetian blinds. The agent wore a 9 mm Smith & Wesson combat ASP on his hip, and Carlos flexed his fingers, picturing how easy it would be to take the weapon, turn it on his guards and make his way to freedom.
Fantasy.
Aguire had no place to go, no refuge where he would be safe from Vos's hunters. They would sniff him out like hunting dogs no matter where he tried to hide. If he didn't dispose of Vos, as Pratt had said, there'd be no place in the world that he could call his own.
And after Vos was put away? Then what?
Aguire lacked the federal agent's confidence that all would be forgotten and forgiven. Those who followed Vos might not be interested in settling his debts, but they would need a show of strength to launch their reign. What better testament to their power than a blow against the federal government itself? A strike against the same «protected» witness who had cleared the throne for their ascension in the first place.
In retrospect, Aguire almost wished that he'd decided to do the time for smuggling grass and blown Pratt off about the witness gig. His chances of appeasing Vos were better on an outside deal than turning stoolie for the Feds, but he had panicked, thinking of Ernesto's reputation for exacting cruel revenge. The slightest hint of a defection was enough to spark a killing frenzy, and the DEA had played upon his fears to put the wheels in motion. Now he had no choice but to continue with the game and pray that he was still alive at its conclusion.
He wasn't impressed with the arrangements Pratt had made for transportation to Los Angeles. Two men, regardless of their backgrounds, hardly qualified to stand against the army Vos would field against them. Half a dozen men might have done it, but Carlos understood Pratt's point about remaining inconspicuous. A fighting squad in transit drew attention.
Aguire figured he was creamed.
Los Angeles was roughly two thousand miles away, and while Aguire took no honors in geography, he knew that they'd have to cross eight states to reach their destination. Much of that, from northern Florida to eastern Texas, was his own damned territory, and he knew the kind of lethal talent Vos could marshal with a phone call. If the price was right — and Vos would make it right this time — they could be facing anything from Cubans and the Ku Klux Klan to outlaw bikers and the Mafia before they reached L.A. Vos's friends were everywhere, and even certain enemies might help him out on principle, to keep their own potential rats in line.
A car pulled up out front, immediately followed by two more. Pratt's men were at the windows, weapons in their hands, relaxing when they recognized their boss outside.
"It's showtime, Carlos."
Aguire snared his tailored jacket and slipped into it before he reached the door, waiting while his escorts led the way. If snipers lay in wait, he'd let the DEA men earn their paltry paychecks.
"Clear," one of them told him. Aguire donned his aviator shades before he stepped outside. Despite the mirrored lenses, brilliant sunlight made him squint as he emerged from the confinement of his room.
Five men had joined the guards outside. Aguire let his eyes skim over Pratt, the man from Justice, then settled on the two who had been chosen for the run to California. Both were roughly six feet tall, one younger than the other, both athletic in appearance, obviously fit. They studied Carlos with the same intensity that he applied to them, recording every detail of his face and form, apparently deciding he wasn't a threat. As they approached, Aguire noted that they m
oved with the economy of warriors, confident and yet aware of their surroundings.
The older man was introduced as Michael Blanski, his companion Johnny Green. Aguire knew the names were false, but it meant nothing to him. After Thursday — if he lived that long — he wouldn't see these men again.
Pratt handed him an imitation leather bag. "You'll find some shaving gear in there," the agent said. "A toothbrush, all the basics. Plus a couple shirts and whatnot, if you get the urge to change along the way."
Aguire mustered up a smile. "How generous."
"Don't mention it."
The witness turned to face his escorts. "I believe that's everything," he told them. "Shall we go?"
* * *
"You think they'll make it?" Leo Turrin asked as the Jimmy turned a corner, and disappeared from their view.
"They'd better," Pratt replied. "We've got a year and something like two million bucks invested in this operation. If they fuck it up and lose Aguire, all that work goes down the crapper."
Hal Brognola scowled at Pratt, remembering precisely why he didn't like the man. "No sweat," he growled. "They haven't blown one yet."
"I'm glad to hear it, but you know, this is the big time."
Leo was about to answer that one, but Brognola stopped him with a glare. "Let's go."
"You're leaving?" Pratt seemed genuinely disappointed. "Hey, I thought that we could have a couple drinks to celebrate."
"I'll do my celebrating when they're home and dry."
"Your call." Pratt didn't seem hurt by the rejection. "If there's anything I need…"
"Dial information," Brognola retorted as he walked away, Leo trailing as he moved in the direction of their car.
When they were rolling, Turrin risked a repetition of his question. "Think they'll make it?"
"I wish I knew. Pratt's too damned smug about his decoy. If the DEA is leaking like he says, there's no way he can keep a phony transfer secret."
"Striker chose the route. That's something."
"Yeah, but I'd feel better if he'd kept it to himself."
"There's only so much you can cover on a deal like this."
"Don't rub it in."
"They are the best. That wasn't bullshit, Hal."
"It's relative. At some point, quantity inevitably cancels quality."
"I'll put my money on the Bolans, all the same."
"We shouldn't have to make that bet. I don't like picking up the pieces after someone else has fumbled."
"Well, at least Pratt had the balls to 'fess up on the leak."
"For what it's worth. We still don't have a handle on the problem, and from what I've seen, he's nowhere to a solution."
They fell silent on the drive back to the airport. Both had packed their bags before they left the cheap motel where they were staying, courtesy of DEA, and there was time to spare before their flight departed for Washington. They could have stopped for drinks, perhaps a sandwich, but Brognola had a sudden urge to put the town behind him, as if flight would magically erase his doubts and fears.
Above all else, he hated putting Bolan and his brother at risk for something that was out of his control, an operation planned and executed by the DEA with knowledge of their in-house problems. Pratt had obviously known about the leak — or leaks — before he turned Aguire, but the plan had gone ahead on schedule, Pratt and his superiors assuming they could count on someone else to do their dirty work if things got hairy. Now Brognola had his best damned agent on the line, together with the guy's kid brother, and he couldn't even say for certain whether they'd been sold out.
The big Fed made a silent promise to himself. If anything went wrong in transit, if the brothers didn't make it for whatever reason, he'd find a way to even things with Pratt. It might take time, but somehow, someday, he'd hang the grinning bastard out to dry.
Brognola owed the Executioner that much.
And come to think of it, he owed it to himself.
"I need a drink," Brognola said.
"I hear you, guy."
"Who's buying?"
"Flip you for it." Leo dug a quarter from his pocket. "Call."
"I'm heads."
The coin flashed briefly, spinning. Leo caught it, opened up his hand and frowned.
"Let's say two out of three."
* * *
"What's in the bag?" Johnny asked when they were rolling west on Highway 10 near Riverside.
The soldier smiled and fished Brognola's parcel out from underneath his seat. "Pull over, and I'll show you."
Keeping pace with traffic, Johnny pointed out a bankrupt drive-in restaurant ahead. "This good enough?"
"It should be. Swing around in back, so we can have some privacy."
When they were parked, he produced a set of Georgia license plates from the bag.
"We're switching?"
"Better safe than sorry," Bolan answered. "Pratt's already told us that he has a leak. No point in taking chances when we don't know what's been leaking."
"Roger that."
Outside he scanned the empty lot and highway shoulder prior to crouching with a small screwdriver in his hand to change the plates. He hadn't asked Brognola where they came from, and it didn't matter. If there was a leak at the DEA, the information passed along about their license number would be obsolete. A description of their vehicle might still put gunners on their track, but there was nothing he could do about that paint job at the moment. They'd have to play the cards as they were dealt.
When Bolan had finished switching plates in front and back, he dropped the old ones in a rusty trash bin, crawling back inside the cab.
"Pratt might have wanted those," Johnny said.
"No sweat. I'll let him know where he can pick them up."
"About our schedule…"
"It's a washout," Bolan told his brother. "I don't like Big Brother knowing where we plan to spend the night. We'll take it as it comes."
"Outstanding."
They had covered close to fifteen miles before the warrior turned to face Aguire, seated in the back. "If you can think of anything we ought to know about this trip, feel free to jump right in."
The man's smile was weary, strained.
"I know that Vos will try to kill me — all of us — before we reach Los Angeles. Beyond that, I can only speculate."
"I'm listening."
"In Florida he works with Cubans on the distribution end, and they provide the muscle when he has a war to fight. In Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana, there are other factions — 'patriotic' groups and local syndicates — who deal with Vos for their supplies. In Texas he does business with Chicanos and the cycle gangs."
"We're still a few states short," the Executioner reminded him.
"My territory covered only Gulf states and the South," Aguire said. "There will be other groups, of course… but who they are, I cannot say."
"You know the men in charge out west?"
"I did, but they are dead. Vos has not wasted any time."
"Insurance?"
"Burning bridges. He will reason that if one friend has betrayed him, others may be leaning in the same direction. It is better to eliminate the innocent and save himself than risk disaster."
"So," Johnny said, "it must be getting lonely where you live."
"I am accustomed to the loneliness," Aguire answered. "It is death that troubles me."
"Let's concentrate on living for a while," the Executioner suggested. "I'm assuming that you want to reach L.A., but if you start to change you mind en route, remember that we've got a job to do. It's just a little late for you to change your mind and plan a new itinerary."
"I have nowhere else to go."
"We're straight on that, then."
"Straight," the passenger agreed. "If I could have a weapon…"
"Negative. I realize you're playing on the home team now, but you're an unknown quantity to us. If things go sour along the way, we need to know our enemies are all outside. You follow?"
"Perfectly." Aguire's smile was humorless. "And if we are attacked?"
"We deal with that one when it happens," Bolan told him. "In the meantime, I suggest you kick back and enjoy the scenery."
"Of course. I might not have another chance."
The smile was positively morbid now, and Bolan turned away before it could affect him. If their passenger was counting on an early funeral, Bolan meant to disappoint him. He'd been retained to see Aguire safely through the killing grounds, and he would do so if he could. And failing that, he was prepared to lay his life down in the effort. It wasn't a battle of his choosing, but he had agreed to stand and fight it all the same. Once battle had been joined, the soldier knew only one way to play the game.
With everything he had, and damn the cost.
5
The public phone was on its fourth shrill ring when Nathan Trask shoved past a pimply faced punk rocker and grabbed the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Are you the lawyer?"
"Yes."
"Where were you, counselor?"
"I had to find a parking space," Trask answered, knowing that it sounded lame. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he could feel a flush of color rising in his cheeks.
"This ain't some kind of fucking game. Leave early next time, Nathan."
Trask felt his heart lurch once against his ribs.
"No names!" he hissed.
"Relax. You think they're tapping every public phone in Jacksonville? Let's not be paranoid."
From where he stood, the syndicate attorney felt exposed to prying eyes, and anything seemed possible. A wiretap, bugs, directional microphones — nothing could automatically be ruled out. His present mission lay outside the sheltered realm of the attorney-client privileges, treading on the quicksand of criminal conspiracy.
Trask had been cautious when he dialed the number Vos had given him, delivering the coded message and receiving his instructions for a callback time, instructing Trask that he'd let the telephone ring five times prior to hang up. If no one answered — or if someone else should answer — ail bets were off, and Trask could try out his half-baked explanations on Vos next time he visited his client in the lockup. As it was, Trask knew that he'd nearly blown it, and he wondered if he had the nerve to see his mission through.
Blood Run Page 5
