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Minutes later, she’d arrived at her own bungalow on Whitehead Street, her cherry-red, fully restored 1965 Mustang convertible in the driveway. Sliding the key into the driver’s door, she slid into the seat and turned over the 289 2V engine.
Purring like a happy cat being scratched behind the neck, the engine went smoothly into reverse at Lola’s moving of the gearshift.
This late at night, the traffic was fine on Whitehead, and moving decently on Route 1 to the bridge, though it seemed agonizingly slow to Lola.
A pit opened up in the bottom of her stomach as she turned off Route 1 onto the side road that led to the dive shop, the warehouse and the restaurant across the street.
But Lola saw none of those things. She saw only the flashing lights and the yellow crime-scene tape.
Dozens of sedans and SUVs were parked, all with the rapid-fire sequence of colored lights that indicated they belonged to law enforcement. There were people wearing the uniform of the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office, and plainclothes agents wearing windbreaker jackets with “BATF” stenciled in big white letters on the back.
The tape cordoned off both the warehouse and the dive shop.
The pit in Lola’s stomach grew wider.
She parked the Mustang and managed to talk to Deputy Hobart, who’d always had the hots for her, into letting her past the tape.
Several agents were standing over two dead bodies, using various pieces of crime-scene investigation equipment. One victim was a giant of a man, wounded in both the forehead and left arm, the former likely to have been the fatal shot. But Lola barely noticed that, instead focusing on the one with the mangled left thigh: Agent John McAvoy.
“Noooo!” Lola cried out as she raced toward the body, her eyes welling with tears.
One of the agents stopped her, wrapping his arms around her in a bear hug that kept her arms at her side.
“Let me go!”
Another agent stared hard at her. “Who the hell are you, lady? And what are you doing in my crime scene?”
“My name is Lola Maxwell—I was working with Johnny—with Agent McAvoy.” Then she remembered the password Johnny had given her in case she ever found herself speaking to a BATF agent about this case. “Galleria.”
The agent blinked twice, then looked at the person manhandling Lola. “Let her go.”
After she was free, Lola knelt so she could see Johnny better, years of training keeping her from actually disturbing the body and any evidence it might contain. It looked like his thigh had been hit by a large-caliber bullet that shredded the femoral artery. He would’ve bled out in moments.
The other body meant that nothing would come of it from an investigative standpoint. The Samoan—who looked like one of Lee’s goons, the one they called Pooky—killed the BATF agent, and the BATF agent killed Pooky. Lola had been a cop too long to know that this was just two murders that had conveniently solved each other. The paperwork would be clean and easy, the cases would improve the county’s crime stats, and life would go on. No one would avenge Johnny’s death because they knew who killed him.
Her heart ached from the sight of his glass-eyed stare, but she vowed that she would carry on, the cold fire of vengeance burning behind her tear-filled eyes.
1
The satellite phone had interrupted Mack Bolan’s fishing.
Strictly speaking, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d been on a rented boat in the middle of Bear Lake near Atlanta, Michigan, all day, but not a single salmon had taken the bait at the end of his line. Was it really fishing if you didn’t catch any fish?
Bolan rarely took downtime, as there was always something that needed his attention. He valued his R and R, and he was a practical man. He had never subscribed to the notion that the rest and relaxation was the most important part of fishing. If one wanted to rest and relax, there were plenty of ways to do it, and he wouldn’t have had to leave his rented cabin or take the small motorboat into the middle of Bear Lake.
No, he wanted to fish. But the salmon weren’t exactly cooperating.
The Executioner took very few vacations, but it was time for him to kick back and clear his mind, take time so that his body could heal from all that he’d put it through in the past few weeks.
But he’d been in Montmorency County for twenty-four hours, and he was bored, so he quickly snatched up the sat phone when it signaled an incoming call.
“Striker,” the gruff voice of Hal Brognola said, “sorry to interrupt your time off, but it’s been twenty-four hours, so I assume you’re ready to go back to work?”
Brognola knew him well. “What’s the mission?”
“There’ll be a Stony Man plane on the tarmac at Atlanta Municipal Airport within the hour to take you to Key West International Airport. The full mission brief will be there.”
“Anything else?”
“It’ll all be in the intel package. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Bolan disconnected with Brognola after his goodbyes and steered the boat back to the shore.
It took fifty minutes to return the boat, pack his few things into a duffel, check out of the cabin, and take his rental car to the airport, where he returned it. Stony Man had sent a private jet just as Brognola had promised. Bolan could see Charlie Mott, one of Stony Man’s pilots, waiting on the tarmac.
Bolan went easily through security, his credentials allowing him to bring his 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226 handgun into the airport without question. He had only the one weapon—he was, technically, on vacation, after all.
Boarding the plane, he saw that Brognola had anticipated his needs, as usual. An ICC aluminum case covered in black ballistic nylon sat on one of the eight comfortable chairs, and a Pelican 1780W HL Long Case on another. A quick look revealed they held a Mark XIX Desert Eagle .357 Magnum pistol and an RRA Tactical Entry 5.56 mm automatic rifle, respectively. On one of the two seats opposite where the weaponry had been placed was a laptop.
Mott quietly closed the door to the plane and clambered into the cockpit. “We’ll be in the air in two shakes, Striker. Nice to have you aboard.”
“Thanks, Charlie. Good to see you again.”
Taking the seat next to the laptop after stowing his duffel, the Executioner picked it up and opened it, settling it on his lap while the machine left standby mode.
The laptop’s desktop—which was from a proprietary operating system created by Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man’s computer expert—had only one folder visible on it, simply labeled Striker. Bolan double-clicked on it.
For the rest of the trip south, Bolan read through every file in that folder. The latest in a series of attempts by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives to get close to a Key West–based gunrunner named Kevin Lee had failed, a long-term undercover agent named John McAvoy had been found dead near an empty warehouse. According to McAvoy’s partner, an operative named Lola Maxwell, McAvoy had believed the warehouse to be one of Lee’s main stashes for illegal weaponry he wanted to move, but McAvoy was made, and the warehouse cleaned out. The forensics report from the warehouse didn’t provide any useful evidence. And a dead body was left behind to take the rap.
McAvoy had gotten much deeper than any previous undercover operative. His identity was known only to his handler, who had specifically been given autonomy to pick his own agent in the hopes of avoiding a leak. Still, he was made and executed.
BATF had a leak. Bolan’s job was to find the leak and plug it once and for all.
Bolan knew both Maxwell and McAvoy by reputation. The latter was a solid agent with a good record, including an impressive bust of an operation working out of Chicago during his days as a CPD detective, after which BATF recruited him. He would be sorely missed.
Maxwell was more of a wild card. A sheriff’s deputy in Monroe County, Florida, she moved on to the CIA and then became a freelance operative much like Bolan himself, though with less latitude, secrecy, or support than Bolan enjoyed. The CIA let her go for reasons undisclosed, at a time when the presidency changed hands from one political party to another. That meant that either she screwed up in such a way that was embarrassing to the company, or it was a political move by a new commander in chief putting his mark on things. Or, possibly, both.
According to the memo from Brognola that led off the documents in the file folder, Bolan was to work with Maxwell to uncover the leak and put Lee away. The higher-ups at BATF were not thrilled about it, according to Brognola, but knew that they had to get their own house in order first.
After the plane landed smoothly on the short runway at Key West’s small airport—it received the rather outré designation of Key West International Airport by virtue of its proximity to Central and South America—Bolan took the two cases, but left the laptop. He’d tapped the special key that would wipe the hard drive.
In the small waiting area near the two small baggage claim stations Bolan spotted a large man with a round, bald head, huge arms that ended in wide shoulders, a barrel chest, squat legs, and no discernible neck, who seemed to have spotted him, also. Despite the man’s size, Bolan couldn’t detect an ounce of fat on him—easily done, as he was wearing a skintight muscle shirt and shorts. The Executioner noticed that the large man walked with a slightly odd gait and his right arm stuck out a bit farther from his side than his left. He was a man who was used to walking with a shoulder holster, and who didn’t have it on because airport security would’ve been all over him.
Bolan readied himself as the man walked toward him. If this guy was one of Lee’s men, it didn’t bode well for this assignment. An op that began with a firefight five minutes after Bolan landed meant big trouble. Also, any leak had to have been tugboat-size if the Executioner’s own involvement was known by his target only a couple hours after he got the mission.
The man walked up to Bolan and said, “Are you Mr. Cooper? I’m Mr. Faraday. I’m here to take you to Lola.”
“Any particular reason why I should believe you?” Bolan asked.
Faraday was now standing close to Bolan. He was half a head shorter than the Executioner, but twice as wide. Still, Bolan had taken down bigger opponents unarmed, and he had his SIG-Sauer handy if he needed it. For that matter, he had two solid gun cases, one in either hand, both of which would make excellent blunt instruments should the need arise.
Then Faraday whispered the word “Galleria.”
From his airplane reading, Bolan knew that was the BATF code word for McAvoy’s op. In and of itself, it didn’t prove as much as Faraday probably thought it did. If there was a leak, then McAvoy’s code word might well have been common knowledge in Lee’s organization.
Plus, Faraday’s name appeared nowhere in that same airplane reading, which had included a full dossier on Lola Maxwell.
Still and all, Bolan was willing to go along with Faraday for the time being, if for no other reason than to gather information.
He followed Faraday out to the sun-drenched parking lot, where he led them to a 1965 Mustang convertible.
Bolan’s hopes for this mission continued to plummet. A cherry-red Mustang was hardly the most inconspicuous vehicle to be using for an undercover op. And if it was part of Maxwell’s cover, should she really have sent it out to pick him up?
Faraday squeezed his massive frame into the Mustang, which also went some way toward explaining the choice of car: Faraday’s bulk would not have fit comfortably in a more modern sedan. Of course, sedans were hardly the only option, and the prevalence of SUVs made that a far more inconspicuous mode of transport.
Bolan slid quietly into the passenger seat after placing his duffel and gun cases in the backseat. As Faraday drove out onto a road that ran alongside the Gulf of Mexico, Bolan saw that this was hardly the only vintage car around. That mitigated the problem, but hardly solved it.
Gazing past Faraday’s head, Bolan looked out and saw the bright blue sky, broken by the occasional white cloud, the sun’s brightness doubled by reflecting off the blue-with-whitecaps water of the Gulf. The water was also filled with boats of all kinds, ranging from small yachts to sailboats to motorboats very similar to the one he was using for fishing in Michigan earlier this day. Other, smaller boats were used to drag parasailers through the sky.
The road came to an L intersection, and the Mustang continued on it, turning right. Faraday navigated through several other streets, which contained various houses colored in pastels. A large number were new construction, due to the devastation wrought by Hurricane Katrina, though Bolan noted that they were still in the same style as the ones that were constructed in the nineteenth century when Key West was a major port of call and the wrecking industry was at its peak.
The Mustang pulled into the driveway of a bungalow on Whitehead Street. It was white with blue trim.
Before going inside, Bolan removed his Desert Eagle from its case, assembling it in just a few moments.
“You ain’t gonna need that,” Faraday said.
The Executioner said nothing, but continued to put his weapon together. He saw no reason to take Faraday at his word.
When the Desert Eagle was placed snugly in his waistband, reducing the SIG-Sauer in his shoulder holster to the status of backup weapon, Bolan said, “Let’s go.”
Inside the bungalow was sparsely furnished and lit by garish tropical daylight. Under the right circumstances, such bland décor and intense natural light could be used to disorient, but this was southern Florida, where bright sun was the order of the day.
Inside was a tall woman in her early- to mid-thirties with red shoulder-length hair and stunning emerald-green eyes. She wore a tube top that barely contained a sizable chest, flip-flops, and toenail polish that were all the same red as the Mustang. Her denim cutoffs had a belt holster that contained a Beretta U22 NEOS 22LR pistol.
“Lola Maxwell, I presume?” Bolan asked.
“That would be me. My contacts said you were the best. I’ve never known them to be wrong.
“We’re trying to bring down a gunrunner here, Mr. Cooper, one who killed a BATF deep-cover agent.”
“Yes, I know. I read the file. What I don’t know is what you and your thug over here have to do with any of this.”
Faraday tensed at the “thug” reference, but calmed at a look from Maxwell.
“Jean-Louis is my associate. He used to be an enforcer for a drug crew out of Key Largo, until I put him away. He’s been working for me since he did his time.”
“And you?”
“Since I left the CIA—”
Bolan almost smiled. “Since the CIA kicked you out on your ass, you mean. Don’t screw around with me, Ms. Maxwell. I take on jobs that need to be done, and I can’t do it with incompetents working alongside me.”
“I’m not incompetent!” Maxwell said. “My leaving the CIA was political. I’m sure you know all about that.”
“Yes, which is why I avoid politics.”
“In any case, BATF hired me to provide support for Johnny—for Agent McAvoy on his undercover job.”
Jerking a thumb toward Faraday, Bolan asked, “And he fits in where?”
“He helps me out,” Maxwell said evasively, staring at the floor. “Look, it’s easier to do this kind of thing if you have some kind of local talent. Jean-Louis and I know a lot of the players, plus we have deniability with BATF. Anyone digs, they’ll find an ex-con and an ex-spook. My current work is completely off the grid—kinda like yours, I presume.” She added that with an ironic smile. “And we’re wasting time. I think I know who might’ve fingered Johnny.”
Bolan folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t like this. “How long were the two of you sleeping together?”
Maxwell blinked. “What are you talking about?” Her attempt at ignorance was pathetic.
Moving toward the door, the Executioner said, “We’re done.”
“What?”
“You slept with your partner. You’re working with an ex-con. And I get the feeling you’re more interested in vengeance for your lover’s murder than in justice against a gunrunner. I appreciate the lift from the airport, but I’ll take it from here by myself. Like I said before, I don’t work with incompetents.”
Bolan put his hand on the front doorknob when Maxwell said, “Wait!”
Turning, Bolan asked, “For what? You’re not going to convince me that this op is anything but botched from the start. You’re too close emotionally, and that clouds judgment—people end up dead. I don’t want one of those people to be me, so we’re done.”
“But I told you, I know who fingered Johnny.”
That got Bolan’s hand off the doorknob—temporarily. “Why didn’t you tell the BATF agents at the scene this?”
“Because I wasn’t thinking straight at the scene. I’ve had a day to think about it, and I know who it has to be—Kenny V. The V is short for Valentino, his last name, but a lot of the boys call him Hot Lips.”
“A good kisser?” Bolan asked.
“No,” Maxwell said. “No, they call him that ’cause his lips are always flapping, and the boys all think that his mouth’ll catch fire, they flap so fast.”
“If he’s that good a talker, how is he still alive?”
“He doesn’t just talk well, he hears everything and knows everybody. He always makes deals that are good for both parties, and he never squeals.”
“Time to break that streak, then,” Bolan said, confident in his ability to extract information. “Where is he?”
“A bar on Sugarloaf Key called Micky’s. He practically lives at the corner table between the jukebox and the pool table. We can be there in twenty minutes.”
“No, I can be there in twenty minutes. I work better alone.”
“Dammit, Cooper, you don’t know the players, and you don’t know the territory.” She chuckled. “And look at you. You stand out like a sore thumb.”
