"Hallelujah," Arnie sneered. "Now, let's suppose we try to jump them on our own, and they should manage to escape."
"We're in the shit."
"Which is exactly where I do not plan to be. I hope we're clear on that."
"Okay, we wait for backup."
"And we make damned sure that we get credit for the kill," he added. "Backup means exactly what it says. They cover us and follow my directions."
"Our directions."
"Right, Claude. Our directions."
"When you put it that way, Arnie, it makes sense."
"I'm glad you think so."
"I'll tell you something. I was getting worried for a minute, there. It looked like we were getting shuffled out."
"We're in, Claude. All the way."
"A piece of cake," the driver replied.
His shotgun rider grinned. "Like falling into a grave."
6
Ernesto Vos wore an exaggerated smile when hulking deputies arrived to lead him from his cell. He would have liked to strangle them bare-handed, then eviscerate their bodies, but instead he feigned compliance with their rules and regulations, posing as a model prisoner. The dealer knew that he was vulnerable here, despite the trappings of security. He understood from personal experience the way jails worked. If he offended any of his keepers by an overt act, they'd find ways to punish him. His life might even be at risk.
Vos knew that he wasn't safe within the prison walls. He had murdered men in prison — had them murdered, rather — and knew that there were always ways to breach security. Where business was concerned, with profits in the millions every week, competitors and enemies became ingenious planners, spinning webs of treachery to bring him down. Carlos Aguire had schemed behind his back to place Vos in a prison cell, and others would be swift to take advantage of his absence from the scene in Bogotá. Inevitably they would start to nibble at the fringes of his territory, but the odds were fair that they would seek his permanent removal prior to making any drastic moves.
The government of the United States might help them there, if Vos went to trial, but a conviction, life in prison, might not satisfy the vultures of Columbia. His competition understood that prison doors swung both ways, and they wouldn't — shouldn't — feel secure until he was exterminated.
Nathan Trask was seated in the waiting room when Vos arrived, and the attorney kept his eyes downcast while Vos was seated and tethered to his chair. His right arm was left free, presumably in case his signature was required on legal documents. He waited silently until the door closed tight behind him and he was alone with his attorney.
"What news?"
Trask frowned. "I'm told that everything should be wrapped up tonight."
Vos raised an eyebrow. "You have doubts?"
"I don't know who I'm dealing with. This cowboy on the phone sounds cocky, overconfident. I'm not convinced he'll do us any good."
"If he can't, no one can. Relax. It's not as if your freedom were in jeopardy."
Trask blushed. "That isn't fair, Ernesto. Dammit…"
"Fair or not, it is the truth. When we are finished here, you will be free to leave. Unless Aguire dies, my future looks like this." He waved his hand to indicate the jail around him. "I must trust your contact, Nathan. Whether you believe in him or not is totally irrelevant."
"Of course."
"Were you successful in alerting all my colleagues."
"That's a problem." Trask looked worried as he spoke. "I tried to call all five, as you requested — and I'll keep on trying if you like — but I believe they've all gone underground to ride this out."
"Perhaps it's for the best," Vos said, and smiled. The calls had been a simple way of checking up on whether his instructions had been carried out. If none of his lieutenants could be reached by Nathan Trask, it meant the killer teams had done their work efficiently. "We'll leave them to their own devices."
"As you wish."
"I wish to be at home in Bogotá," Vos said, the feigned good humor disappearing from his voice. "I need my freedom, Nathan."
"I've done everything you asked."
"Of course you have. And I am grateful for your loyalty."
"Not at all."
"Don't worry if your contact seems a bit… impetuous. He knows his business, and he knows how I reward my faithful friends."
"If I had some idea of who he was…"
"An ally, Nathan. That is all you need to know. Now, quick, before my keepers come again, I must hear anything he told you."
Settling back, Vos heard the counselor's report and smiled. The hare had deviated from his course, but even now the hounds were closing, making preparations for the kill. Tonight it would be finished. Several days to go, while Trask tied up the government with legal sleight-of-hand and evidence was made to disappear. Vos reckoned he should be back home in Bogotá within two weeks.
The U.S. Constitution would protect his rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Vos loved democracy with all his heart.
* * *
Brognola took the call from Felix Pratt without enthusiasm, scowling as he raised the telephone receiver to his ear.
"We've got a little problem," Pratt informed him.
"Spell it out."
"Okay, no frills. Our decoy bit the big one. He was flying west and something happened. Midair flame-out. We've got people from the FAA in Tallahassee working on the site, but I already know what happened."
"Vos."
"Who else?"
Brognola felt the anger rising in his chest, a corresponding pressure building in his skull, and he made every effort to control himself.
"What happened to security?" he asked when he could trust himself to speak.
"I'm looking into it. We knew there was a risk from the beginning. I prefer to take this as a hopeful sign."
"How's that?"
"Vos has the decoy killed. That means he didn't know it was a decoy. Now, we string him on for a couple days, pretending that Aguire's dead, and by the time he finds out his mistake, our pigeon's in L.A. Case closed."
"How many dead?" Brognola asked.
"Dead where?" Pratt seemed confused. "You mean the plane?"
"That's right."
"Let's see, two pilots, um, that would be five."
"You closing their case, too?"
"I wouldn't be surprised." The DEA man's voice came back with just a trace of righteous indignation. "Once we've got Vos on ice for smuggling, I can put the wheels in motion for a murder charge. He'll never fry this side of hell, but I can make damned sure he's off the streets forever. I know how to play this game."
"That's all it is to you? A game?"
"I see. You're waiting for the hearts and flowers, right? Don't hold your breath. I've lost too many men in the past twelve years, in ways you can't imagine. I made friends with some of them before I learned it doesn't pay, but I miss all of them the same. If you're about to say that I don't care about my people, mister, then I say you're full of shit."
Brognola let it slide and changed his tack. "Your plumbers on the job?"
"They're working overtime," Pratt answered, calming. "Nothing solid, yet, but if our leak had top-flight access, nothing would have happened to the decoy."
That made sense, but Brognola couldn't suppress a nagging apprehension. Striker and the kid were out there, riding with a time bomb in their laps, and he could draw no consolation from the fact that five men had been murdered by mistake.
"Is there some way to hold Vos incommunicado for the next few days?"
"I wish." Pratt sounded weary. "We've got him on a short leash as it is. Nobody sees him but his lawyer."
"Nathan Trask?" Brognola made a sour face. "You might as well let half the goddamned syndicate drop by for coffee."
"Sure, I hear you, but you know the law. Defendants have a right to meet with their attorney. What they talk about is strictly confidential. We're on shaky ground already, limiting the time they spend togeth
er, but we haven't had a beef from Trask, so far."
"Have you got people on him?"
"Trask? You kidding? I recall the last time people from the FBI began to check him out. He had their asses in court so fast it made them dizzy. If I go after Nate today, you'll see me going after unemployment checks this time next week."
Brognola knew it was the truth, but knowing didn't make it any easier to take. There had to be a way…
"I thought you ought to know," Pratt said, "that your people changed the route."
Brognola smiled. "Who says?"
"I put a couple spotters out to see them safely on their way. For all I know, they're up in smoke."
"That's show biz."
"Yeah, i don't suppose you have a clue…"
"They don't confide in me," Brognola answered honestly. "If I could put my finger on them now, I'd have a Bureau SWAT team standing by."
"I guess it's just as well. If we can't find them, how can Vos?"
"I hope you're right."
"No sweat. I'll try to get a Polaroid of Ernie's face when Carlos turns up on the witness stand. It ought to be hysterical."
"No doubt. I hate to cut this short, but I've got several things to wrap up here before I pack it in."
"Yeah, right. Same here. If I catch any whispers…"
"Let me know, of course."
"You got it. 'Bye."
Brognola spent a moment staring at the telephone. Five men he had never met were dead; three others — two of whom he loved like sons or brothers — might be added to the list at any moment. There was nothing he could do to help within the law. And yet…
He lifted the receiver, punching up the number of an office on another floor. A strong voice answered on the second ring.
"What's shaking, Leo?"
"Killing time. You got some word?"
The big Fed briefed him on the subject of Pratt's call, producing worried noises on the other end.
"There should be something we can do."
Brognola took a chance. "It's funny you should say that…"
* * *
Pratt tipped the bottle of Excedrin, palming four fat tablets, and reached for the can of 7-Up. Four tabs was twice the recommended dosage, but his head was hammering with twice the normal pain, and jawing with Brognola hadn't helped his situation any.
Pratt could understand the man from Justice being testy, sure. He had two people on the line, and now it looked as if things were getting rough out there. Pratt sympathized, but things were rough all over, all the time. Brognola should have known that going in.
It was disturbing that Aguire's escorts had seen fit to deviate from their established route. It left Pratt in an awkward situation when the brass inquired about his project status, and he didn't like the sound of "five men dead, three missing." It implied a certain lack of expertise, and Felix Pratt had built his reputation in the DEA by acting as a slick professional.
So many of the people in the DEA were burned out on their job these days, disgusted with the obvious futility of battling against the tide. The so-called "war on drugs" was going nowhere fast, with foreign aid continuing to Third World strongmen while they shipped their poison stateside by the ton. Administrations came and went in Washington, but dope flowed on forever.
Pratt resisted disillusionment by thinking of his mission as a challenge. No one else had any luck at breaking up the Bogotá connection, but that didn't mean the link couldn't be broken. Ingenuity was called for, a strategic breakthrough, and the long-awaited victory could still be his.
But was it worth the effort? Were citizens of the United States pissed off enough to call a halt and make it stick? Would they give up their nightly snort to rid America of what the White House called a "creeping cancer"?
Pratt considered taking more Excedrin, changed his mind and slipped the bottle back inside his top desk drawer. No point in working up a sour stomach in addition to the headache. Work would serve him better as an analgesic, and he dragged the stack of fat manila folders closer, noting that Aguire's lay on top.
Aguire.
Opening the file, Pratt made eye contact with a glossy photograph. Aguire had been smiling when they snapped the picture, unaware that he was being captured for posterity. The smile was confident, a mirror of the man's conviction that his money and connections made the world go 'round.
Pratt didn't see that smile much, anymore. It had been good to wipe the smug self-satisfaction from Aguire's face and watch him as reality hit home. Pratt had presented him with simple choices — simple, as opposed to easy — and the dealer had been forced to play a different kind of game. If nothing else, Pratt gained a sense of satisfaction from the minor victory.
And now Aguire had been taken off his hands. The men from Justice were responsible for safe delivery in California, an arrangement that had secretly delighted Pratt's superiors. If anything went wrong, Brognola and his people would absorb the heat. The DEA was free and clear.
It was too bad about the decoy, but you couldn't fight a war without some friendly casualties. Feder and Coleman were — correction, had been — decent agents, and their work toward busting Vos would doubtless be remembered. This time, though, the commendations would be posthumous.
So be it.
Pratt had other fish to fry, and he'd given up on living in the past. His statement to Brognola had been accurate: too many friends and comrades had been lost along the way for him to stop and grieve each time another bought the farm. If you got bogged down in the grief, the odds were good that you would never make it out the other side. Regret was like a patch of quicksand, eating hopes and dreams along with flesh and blood.
If Pratt felt like regretting anything, he never had to look beyond himself: two broken marriages, a son he never saw, because the bitch who took him for a one-way ride on alimony liked the sun in California better than Miami Beach, a job with minimal advancement opportunities that took him to the sewer every day like clockwork. If the need arose, Pratt reckoned he could generate self-pity like a goddamned pro, but there appeared to be no point.
A savvy fighter didn't waste time dwelling on the blows that left him cut and bleeding. He moved on in search of new opponents, working out to keep himself in shape for one more round, perhaps a title shot. And if the referee should be distracted for a moment, what the hell, he threw a punch below the belt to even up the score.
Despite the throbbing pain inside his skull, Pratt thought that he had never been in better shape. He couldn't wait to hear the bell.
* * *
Deceleration woke Aguire from a fitful sleep. His neck was stiff, and he experienced a moment's panic as the Jimmy slowed, but he could see no signs of ambush up ahead.
"This look all right to you?" the Executioner asked.
"I guess."
The Cajun Cottage Motor Inn resembled several hundred other small motels that they'd passed since leaving Jacksonville. It seemed as though they'd been on the road forever, though Aguire knew his sense of timing was disoriented by his frequent lapses into sleep. Despite his apprehension, travel had a stupefying impact. He'd dozed sporadically as they crossed southern Mississippi, following Interstate 10 and the curve of the Gulf, catching Interstate 12 in Louisiana for the northbound run to Baton Rouge.
"Where are we?"
Johnny half turned to face him. "South of Shreveport. If our route got leaked 'by accident, they should be looking for us somewhere in between Lake Charles and Baton Rouge right now."
"And if there was no leak?"
"We're still on schedule," Bolan told him. "Better safe than slaughtered."
"Yes."
Johnny slipped a hand inside his jacket, making sure his weapon was within reach. "I'll check us in. Two rooms?"
"Good thinking."
"Why two rooms?" Aguire asked when the younger Bolan had disappeared inside the office.
"Just a safety measure. It should split the opposition if they don't know where we are."
"What opposition
?"
"Theoretically." The soldier's eyes regarded him from the rearview mirror. "I'm still hoping that we've given them the slip."
"And if you're wrong?"
"We take it as it comes."
Aguire shifted in his seat and scanned the parking lot. The Cajun Cottage Motor Inn reminded him uncomfortably of Jacksonville and his confinement at the Tropical Motel. This time, however, there were other guests in evidence. He counted seven cars in addition to their own, which suggested that the place still had approximately half its rooms available.
"Who's the local mover?" Bolan asked.
"Vos doesn't deal in Shreveport. He has people in New Orleans, but I don't know if they've got connections this far north."
"Who would he use for muscle, in a pinch?"
Aguire shrugged. "It varies. Sometimes the Italians, sometimes not. When the Vietnamese gangs started cutting into business on the Gulf last year, he made arrangements with the Klan."
"As in the KKK?"
"Why not? They hate the Asians anyway, and they need money worse than ever now, with all the damage suits and legal fees. Vos pays them well, and they forget about his accent for a while. It's business."
"Right."
Aguire recognized the big man's attitude. He saw the world in terms of black and white, where good and evil never overlap. It was an antiquated notion, but the prisoner wasn't in a position for debate. Survival was the issue now, and that was absolute. Aguire couldn't find a way to compromise with death.
Johnny emerged from the motel office, scanning left and right before he joined them once again. "We're booked in number six and lucky number thirteen. Take your pick."
Bolan checked both rooms from where he sat. "Let's dummy number six," he said at last. "Thirteen has fewer neighbors."
"And it's closer to the Coke machine," his brother added.
"Right. That, too."
"You superstitious, Carlos?"
"No."
"I'm glad to hear it, man. The last thing we need now would be a hex."
Aguire forced a smile, but he could find no respite from anxiety in small talk. Sudden death was trailing close behind him, like a shadow he couldn't shake, and any moment now he feared that it would smother him in darkness.
Blood Run Page 7
