скачать книгу бесплатно
“Maybe. But I can’t do my job and babysit you two. So stay here.” Looking at Faraday, he said, “Car keys.”
Faraday looked confused.
Glowering at Maxwell, Bolan said, “You want my help, we do things my way, and that means I go alone with no chance of you two following. I either take your car, or I slash the tires and go rent one of my own. Pick one.”
Maxwell bit her lower lip, then nodded toward Faraday, who handed over the Mustang’s keys.
“Smart choice.” Bolan departed the bungalow.
The Mustang’s engine turned over as soon as Bolan applied the key. The old car hummed like the well-oiled machine it was, and the Executioner was silently impressed with at least one aspect of Maxwell’s character: she kept this four-decade-old car in pristine shape.
Once he’d put some distance between himself and Maxwell’s bungalow, he took out his sat phone, which was also equipped with a GPS and a secure Internet connection. The latter enabled him to quickly obtain the precise address of Micky’s on Sugarloaf Key, and the former provided directions.
Sure enough, it took almost exactly twenty minutes to get there. Bolan found a parking lot belonging to a bowling alley a block away from Micky’s, and he parked the rather distinctive Mustang there.
The Executioner played a serious game, one with his life on the line constantly, and he would only trust someone he could count on to back him up. Every indication showed that Maxwell and her “associate” didn’t qualify.
He pulled his jacket around him closer as he walked toward Micky’s. The sun was setting and the temperature was plummeting. The wind that came in off the Atlantic was bitter and cut through Bolan.
Micky’s was a large shack that probably had been used for storage once upon a time. From a distance it looked fairly rickety, and Bolan wondered how it survived hurricane season. But as he got closer, he saw evidence of steel reinforcement. A battered sign gave the name of the place, and what few windows there were were frosted over.
This area of Florida specialized in open-air eateries and drinkeries, and for a place to be this enclosed bespoke a certain illegality.
As if to reinforce that, Bolan walked through the thick metal door to find his nostrils assaulted with cigarette smoke. There were few interior public spaces left that allowed smoking, and while Bolan wasn’t completely up on the Florida State code, he was fairly certain that bars in this state qualified. Places like this, though, bars that catered to the scum of humanity, tended to be smoke-filled throwbacks to a bygone era, a testament to how little the criminal element had changed.
The bar floor was nowhere near large enough to cover the full space of the building. In and of itself that didn’t say much: the Florida Keys weren’t structurally sound enough geologically to support much by way of basements, so the bar’s storage facilities were probably aboveground. Still, Bolan was sure there was more than liquor stored in the area he couldn’t see.
Bolan strode in like he owned the place, heading straight for a wooden stool at the bar. With a single glance he took in the interior: a bar along the left wall, a bartender standing behind it drawing the tap for a customer who sat at the far end, and a floor with a lot of wooden tables. While most of those tables had one or two men sitting at it—there wasn’t a single woman in the place—the one between the jukebox and the pool table was empty.
So much for “practically living there.” Bolan was running out of patience with Lola Maxwell already, and the op was less than twenty-four hours old.
He ordered the lightest beer they had. The bartender glared at him, and Bolan glared right back.
“You a cop?” the bartender asked.
Assuming a cover identity without a moment’s hesitation, Bolan spoke in a New York accent. “Jesus H., is that a stupid question, or what? You really think I’m gonna just say, ‘Yeah, I’m a cop’? I swear to Christ, the sun must bake your brains down here.”
“When’d you come down from the Big Apple?” the bartender then asked with a smile.
Florida was filled with transplanted New Yorkers, so the accent wouldn’t be hard for a bartender to place, but Bolan’s cover required him to play dumb. “What makes you think I’m from New York? And we don’t call it ‘the Big Apple,’ either, asshole.”
“Look, maybe you’ll want to try one of the places out on Route 1.”
“Yeah? Kenny V hang out there, too?”
The bartender frowned. “You’re here to see Hot Lips?”
“Christ, you don’t really call him that, do ya?”
At that, the bartender smiled. “I’ll get your drink.”
As the bartender pulled the tap for the light beer, the door opened to the sound of someone talking a mile a minute.
“So I says to the bitch, I says, ‘Hey look, bitch, if you don’t wanna be doin’ the deed, then you shouldn’t’a been all cozyin’ up to me like you was.’ And she was sayin’, ‘I thought we was just dancin’,’ and I told her, ‘Yo, bitch, when you dance with your cootchie all up against my leg, my guess is that you wanna be doin’ more than dancin’, you feel me?’”
That had to be Kenny Valentino. He had a shaved head, a chin beard and a gold tooth on the left side of his mouth. He seemed to be talking to himself, but as he entered Micky’s, Bolan could see the wireless phone device in his left ear.
“I’m at the joint now, I gotta bounce. Hey, tell Delgado that Lee owes me, a’ight? Good. Peace.”
He tapped the side of his wireless device, then signaled the bartender. “Yo, Marty! Draw me a beer!”
Marty, the bartender, nodded as he brought Bolan his beer. “That,” Marty said to Bolan, “is the guy you’re looking for.”
“No kidding,” Bolan said sardonically. “Kinda worked that out on my own, know what I’m sayin’?” He also was starting to understand where the Hot Lips nickname came from, if he was blithely mentioning Lee’s name over an unsecured mobile phone line.
Kenny said hello to pretty much everyone in the bar, and engaged them in quick conversations. Though “conversations” may have been the wrong word, since none of the people other than Kenny actually said anything.
There were only two people Kenny didn’t acknowledge. One was Bolan. The other was the man at the far end of the bar whom Marty had been serving when Bolan came in.
Bolan paid close attention to all the exchanges, especially the one between Kenny and a short, overweight Latino gentleman with pockmarked skin. After Kenny acknowledged him, the Latino looked right at the man at the end of the bar.
That man then got up and went over to Kenny.
The world seemed to move in slow motion for just a second. Bolan immediately noticed the bulge of a handgun. As the man reached under his windbreaker, Bolan leaped up from his own stool and ran toward the man, reaching for his Desert Eagle.
Even as Bolan moved, the man pulled out a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber handgun.
“What the f—” were Kenny’s last words, as the man squeezed the trigger four times, putting each shot in Kenny Valentino’s chest. The first bullet ripped into his chest, instantly pulverizing his heart. The subsequent three shots, which shredded his lungs, ribs and esophagus, were unnecessary, as the .38-caliber round tore the aorta to pieces, beyond the ability of even the finest hospital to repair.
A cacophony of voices exploded in the bar.
“Shit!”
“He killed Valentino!”
“Shoot the bastard!”
“I never liked the little asshole.”
Pointing his Desert Eagle at the man’s head, Bolan said, “Drop it now.”
The man dived under the pool table. Bolan fired two rounds at the table, the .357 rounds blowing massive holes and sending splintered wood and pulverized felt everywhere.
As Bolan ran toward the pool table, the man popped up, now holding a second S&W .38 and firing both as he ran toward the door.
The Executioner was forced to dive for cover as bullets whizzed over his head.
The other men in the bar—including the pockmarked Latino who had signaled the assassin—had mostly moved toward the exits. Apparently, no one thought highly enough of Kenny Valentino to avenge his death.
Except for the Executioner. Valentino had survived all this time by being useful to the right people. Now, just when Bolan was about to talk to him about his role in informing on a federal agent, a professional showed up to put four bullets into him.
On the one hand, it meant that Bolan was on the right track. On the other, it meant that he couldn’t question the man.
The shots stopped, and Bolan clambered to his feet, running to the front door.
Valentino’s assassin was getting into a white Chevrolet Aveo, which made it much like every other car in south Florida.
Bolan risked throwing a shot, which would require him to steady his stance. Being light on your feet was not a blessing when you fired a .357 Magnum. He felt the tremendous recoil from the Desert Eagle vibrate through his entire body as the bullet sliced through the air, but he held his ground, his feet planted firmly in what martial artists called a three-point stance: one foot slightly in front of the other, toes inverted toward each other, knees bent, center of gravity dropped. It was one of the most stable stances possible, and people who mastered it couldn’t be easily knocked down. Bolan had long ago achieved such mastery.
The round pulverized the back window of the Aveo, which shattered in an ear-splitting explosion of glass. The Executioner also saw shreds of leather and padding, indicating that the round had gone through one of the seats as well.
Bolan had obviously missed the assassin, as he then started the car and drove off. Even a glancing shot from a .357 round would leave someone unable to operate a motor vehicle.
As he ran as fast as he could down the street to where he’d parked Maxwell’s Mustang, Bolan took some solace in the fact that he’d blown out the rear window of the Aveo, which would make it easier to pick up on the road.
Keeping his eye on the vehicle for as long as he could, Bolan saw it turn left at the end of the road, which meant the assassin was heading for the Overseas Highway—U.S. Route 1, the only road that traversed all the Keys. That was a mixed blessing. It meant that the assassin hadn’t stashed a boat here on Sugarloaf Key, which meant Bolan could keep tailing him. But it also meant that the Executioner had to catch up to him before he reached Route 1, otherwise he wouldn’t know whether he went south toward Key West or north toward mainland Florida.
As he approached the Mustang, Bolan leaped into the driver’s seat, grateful that he’d left the top down. Sliding the key into the ignition, the Executioner knew he was about to find out how well Maxwell maintained her vintage vehicle.
Apparently, she did so very well. The ’65 Mustang accelerated smoothly and quickly, and Bolan soon found himself behind a white Chevrolet Aveo with no back window that was turning left onto Crane Boulevard toward Route 1.
The Aveo was a solid, reliable car, often used by rental car companies, but never by car enthusiasts who preferred speed over function. So all things being equal, Bolan would have no trouble keeping up with the assassin with Maxwell’s Mustang.
But all things were somewhat unequal, as there were other cars on the road, and for all that it had the designation of “boulevard,” Crane was just a two-lane road.
Heedless of driving regulations, and common sense, the assassin weaved his Aveo in and out of his side and the oncoming-traffic side, almost getting clipped by vehicles any number of times.
When they reached Route 1, the Aveo swerved more than turned left through a red light. Bolan did likewise. The Executioner had been hoping that the Aveo would have gone right, and south toward Key West. There was a U.S. Navy station on Boca Chica Key, and the Executioner knew that facility well. He also could possibly have called upon some backup from the sailors on the ground there.
But instead, the assassin went north.
The Overseas Highway was also two lanes, which meant that traffic moved only as fast as the slowest person on the road. Paying no heed to other cars, the Aveo zipped in and out of lanes, clipping some vehicles. Bolan wasn’t sure if he did so to increase his speed, or in the hopes that one of the cars he hit would interfere with Bolan’s own ability to keep up, but if it was the latter, it didn’t work. The Mustang turned on the proverbial dime, and Bolan was easily able to avoid the other cars on the road.
They continued over Summerland Key and into Big Pine Key, his quarry continuing to treat the Overseas Highway as his own personal slalom course.
When they reached the Seven Mile Bridge, a stretch that traversed the Gulf of Mexico over the eponymous distance between Little Duck Key and Key Vaca, the traffic lessened—only the Mustang and the Aveo were on this stretch. Bolan wasn’t sure how long this would last, but he would take advantage of the lack of innocent bystanders and the distraction they posed.
About a mile onto the bridge, the assassin stuck an arm out the driver’s window and pointed the muzzle of his S&W in Bolan’s direction and squeezed off three shots.
None of them connected, as the assassin swerved and rubbed up against the concrete railing that kept drivers from going over the edge into the Gulf of Mexico. Sparks flew as the passenger side ground against the guardrail. The assassin righted the car soon enough, but the slowdown from the friction and the swerving allowed the Executioner to close the distance between them.
He didn’t rear-end the Aveo—that was a zero-sum strategy. With two cars of roughly equal size, the rear-ender always got it worse than the rear-endee. In this case, the impact would severely damage the Mustang’s grille and have almost no effect on the Aveo’s bumper.
Instead, Bolan took advantage of the presently nonexistent traffic to get into the northbound lane and pull up alongside the Aveo.
The assassin tried to fire his .38 again. But before he could get a shot off, Bolan swerved right, counting on the more solidly built 1965 car to be able to withstand the impact better than the much lighter and flimsier modern vehicle.
Again the Aveo ground against the concrete railing. Bolan saw the other man struggle to keep the steering wheel under control—and fail miserably. The Aveo was being crushed between the irresistible force of the barricade and the solidly built Mustang.
Headlights then shone in Bolan’s face as a truck came into view going southbound on Route 1. The Mustang was still halfway into the southbound lane, and the only way to avoid a collision was to stop smashing the Aveo against the guardrail.
Swerving left long enough to disentangle the two vehicles from each other—which happened with another screech of metal against plastic—Bolan then put his right foot on the brake, causing the Mustang to decelerate sharply.
The Aveo continued to scrape against the guardrail for several seconds before the assassin also swerved left.
But unlike the Executioner’s maneuver, the assassin went too far. The Aveo spun counterclockwise. Tires squealed against pavement as the car went into an uncontrolled spin.
The truck didn’t slow.
Bolan slammed his foot on the brake, bringing the Mustang to a screeching halt.
The truck did likewise, but had considerably more momentum on its side, and so did not stop immediately.
Bolan watched as the truck smashed into the Aveo.
2
Lola Maxwell fumed.
It wasn’t bad enough that Johnny McAvoy was dead, but they had to send him to avenge his death?
No—that was the problem. The man they’d sent had no interest in avenging McAvoy’s death. He was just there to finish the job McAvoy had started.
In truth, that was the difference between them. Maxwell honestly couldn’t give a damn about bringing Kevin Lee to justice. If it wasn’t him selling illegal foreign firearms to the soldiers in the drug trade that ran rampant in south Florida, it would be someone else.
But Lee was the reason her lover was dead—and she intended to kill him for that.
Sleeping with McAvoy had never been part of the plan. Maxwell was a professional, and a professional never slept with a partner on an operation.
At least, that was what the rule book said. But the problem with the rule book was that it was hard to find when you were on a long-term deep-cover op.
It wasn’t so bad for Maxwell. She was playing the ex-cop hanging out in her old stomping grounds. The only difference was that she was still on the job, just nobody knew it apart from McAvoy and Faraday.
But McAvoy had been all alone out there except for her. He spent his days and nights living a lie, and the only person he could truly confide in, besides a handler he spoke to once a week or so, was Maxwell.
It was four months into the op when it had happened. One of the guys in Lee’s employ got his girlfriend knocked up, and they decided to get married. “Donald Kincaid” was trying to ingratiate himself into Lee’s world, and going to a bachelor party was definitely a way to endear yourself. So he joined them in barhopping and strip-club attending, working their way up and down Duval Street in a drunken stupor.
Afterward, he stumbled to Maxwell’s bungalow at five in the morning. He banged on her door, apparently too drunk to even operate the doorbell properly. She climbed out of bed, slipped into a silk robe and opened the door to see McAvoy, much drunker than he should have been while undercover, babbling on and on about how horrible these men were, the way they treated the other people in the bars and especially the way they treated the strippers. And when management tried to rein them in, one of them pulled his Beretta and shoved the muzzle right in his face.
The group of men had been left alone after that, but McAvoy—who’d been pretending to go along with the macho bullshit up until then—had a hard time with this incident. So he drank more.
The ironic thing was that it worked. Finley, one of Lee’s top guys, confided in McAvoy as the party was breaking up that he had been suspicious of him, but seeing him three sheets to the wind with the rest of them proved he was an okay guy.
McAvoy had been crying at this point, and Maxwell took him in her arms, the silk of her robe sliding open to reveal her ample cleavage. McAvoy started kissing her neck and working his way down to that cleavage, and Maxwell found herself completely uninterested in stopping him.
Eventually, they made it back to the bedroom, the bathrobe long since discarded, as were his clothes. Because Maxwell looked the way she did, she could have her pick of men, but because of that, she was extraordinarily picky about whom she chose to sleep with outside the confines of the job.
Of course, this was technically within those confines, but it was hard to argue with McAvoy’s hungry need that morning. Or hers, if it came to that, as McAvoy was a most sensitive lover.
