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Lassiter nodded. He remembered the place. He’d used the abandoned park from time to time as a staging area for raids into Mexico and Central America.
One of the Wolves escorting them pulled up alongside Lassiter’s window and motioned for him to lower it. The percussive rumbling of the Harley nearly drowned out the biker’s words, but Lassiter could still make them out: “Take the next right.”
Up ahead he saw a dirt road that intersected with the highway.
Lassiter used his radio to relay their turnoff to the semi. “You guys pull over, but stay on the main highway. Set up sentry positions,” he added. “Morris and I will make the exchange down that road, then come back to meet you. Remember, our orders are to take the semi to the GDF facility outside South Tucson afterward.”
He waited until his guys in the Peterbilt truck gave him a “Roger that.”
The lead biker swerved onto the dirt road and glanced back to make sure the van was following. Lassiter didn’t fully trust the bikers, but he had dealt with them enough times to know this was how they operated. Besides, he had his insurance. He nudged the Beretta 93R on his hip for reassurance and rubbed his fingers over the plastic grip of his M-4. He usually left the rifle in the van on these high desert transactions, but there was no way he was going in unarmed. The van jolted as the wheels left the pavement and hit the dirt surface of the side road. The other Harley swung in behind them.
While Lassiter didn’t care about turning over the drugs to the motorcycle idiots, having the weapons along at this point, albeit back on the highway, didn’t seem like a prudent move. Of course, he reminded himself, that wasn’t his call. Or his concern. He was just following orders. It had to be Godfrey’s bright idea, his master plan. He’d been using the Wolves motorcycle gang to transport weapons south of the border for the past year, in exchange for the drugs and money to run their secret, dirty little operations. The deal with De la Noval, set up through the bikers, had been the largest they’d attempted. So large, the Wolves said, they’d have to use helicopters to transport it in. A handy little excuse for dropping Lassiter and his team on the unsuspecting drug lord and his cronies.
They were expecting a large cache of weapons, after all. And that’s what they got. Lassiter smiled. He and Morris had gone perhaps half a mile, with the headlights of the van illuminating the cloudy wake of dust the lead motorcycle was raising, when Lassiter spotted a group of motorcycles parked in a smoothed-out circular patch perhaps a hundred yards distant. A headlight flashed momentarily, and he assumed it was a signal. They came to a stop, and Lassiter waited for the dust to settle before he stepped out.
The terrain was typically barren. Short sprouts of cactus and sage speckled the undulating landscape, which stretched away into the darkness.
Four bikers were leaning on their hogs, each wearing the distinctive burning crosses with the white wolf’s head in the center. The one closest to them pushed off his seat and sauntered forward.
“About damn time you got here,” he said.
Lassiter could see the biker was missing a few important teeth. The guy was maybe six-three and had no shirt on under his leather vest. His fat belly jiggled as he walked.
“You got the stuff?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Lassiter said. “You got the money?”
The biker rolled his tongue over his gap-toothed grin. “First we test it.”
“Be my guest,” Lassiter said. “But then we count.”
The biker spit onto the ground off to his side. At least he knew enough not to get near Lassiter’s boots.
“Do that again and I’ll break your neck,” Lassiter said in a calm, but firm voice.
The biker tried to smile, but his bravado was obviously shaken.
Morris brought the suitcase from the rear of the van. The biker held out his hands.
“You got something for us?” Lassiter said.
The biker frowned and then snapped his fingers. One of the other guys got off his motorcycle and undid some bungee cords fastening a suitcase to the rear seat. He walked forward holding the bag.
The third biker stepped up with a small, clear plastic case about the size of a matchbox. It contained three small tubes. He reached into his pocket and came up with a Buck knife, which he flipped open. The blade shone in the moonlight.
“Well, open the motherfucker,” the lead biker said.
Morris looked to Lassiter, who nodded.
After Morris unzipped the suitcase, he lifted the lid. It was full of neatly wrapped, bricklike blocks sealed in plastic.
The biker with the knife reached for one.
“Take one from the bottom,” the first biker told him.
“Show us the money first, asshole,” Lassiter said.
The gap-toothed biker glared at him momentarily, but Lassiter knew it was all bluff. If this idiot had any sense at all, he’d know when to rein in his tough-guy act.
Gap-tooth motioned for the second man to open the suitcase. It was full of rubber-banded hundred dollar bills.
“Make sure there are no flash rolls,” Lassiter said.
Morris grinned as he moved forward. Suddenly, his body made an uncontrollable jerking motion and his hands went to his chest. By the time Lassiter heard the sound of the report he was already dropping to the ground.
Gap-tooth and his friends weren’t so lucky. They looked around and started to draw their weapons, but more shots sounded. One by one they went down, in rapid succession.
Two snipers, Lassiter estimated. The shots had come in too quickly to be from one weapon. The snipers were using night-vision scopes, he figured.
He rolled over, wedging himself into the dirt so he could get to Morris.
His hands found the kid’s neck. No pulse. He swiveled the head toward him. Open, dead eyes stared back.
At least it’d been quick, Lassiter thought. The bullet had hit him in the back and exited the front. A massive tear in Morris’s shirt indicated a big exit wound. It had been made by a large-caliber round. Lassiter brought the radio to his mouth and said, “Condition red. We’re under fire here, over.”
No response.
That probably meant that whoever it was had already taken out his two men with the semi.
Another shot ripped the dirt a few feet from Lassiter’s head.
You missed, asshole, he thought. That was your first mistake.
He reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and grabbed the cylindrical object there. He rolled onto his back as his fingers found the plunger, and he closed his eyes.
He felt the pop and then heard the rushing release. Seconds later the popping sound told him the Starlite flare had ignited high overhead, and he rolled to his feet, running all-out toward the expanse of low hills to the west. From the trajectory of the rounds, that had to be where the snipers were. And if his luck held out, they were temporarily blinded by the star-light, star-bright flash.
For once, he hoped his adversaries had been using night-vision goggles.
As he passed the van, he paused to rip open the passenger door and pull out the M-4. If he was going to have a chance, he’d have to settle it rifle to rifle. Snapping off the safety, Lassiter continued his run. Ahead of him something moved.
Your second mistake, asshole, he thought as he brought his M-4 up and fired.
The shadowy figure jerked in the fading light of the descending flare. His spotter next to him obviously panicked and turned to flee. Lassiter’s second shot got him squarely in the back.
Time to zigzag, Lassiter thought as he made an abrupt right turn. If he was setting up the ambush, that’s where he would be. The light from the flare was almost totally diminished now, but perhaps a hundred feet ahead he saw two more men moving in the darkness. He flipped the selector switch to full-auto and sprayed their position. They did a pell-mell dance of death before falling.
Lassiter got to their location and flattened out, grabbing the elongated barrel of the Barrett sniper rifle. It had a mounted night-vision scope. The spotter had a set of goggles on his face. Lassiter aimed the Barrett toward the black silhouette of the semi and used the goggles to survey the area. Three figures moved by the truck. A van had pulled in behind it. Someone had been tailing them, but who?
Better take care of these three before I worry about that, he thought as he braced the butt of the Barrett against his right shoulder. The scope gave him a telephoto green image of the three men. One of them was frantically talking on a cell phone. The second held a radio to his mouth, and as Lassiter’s hearing began to return, a radio on one of the dead men next to him crackled.
“Al, what’s going on?” the voice on the radio said. “Did you get them?”
Lassiter lined up the man’s chest in the crosshairs, then squeezed the trigger. The jolt was hardly perceptible as the big, .50-caliber shell popped out of the ejection port. He lined up the crosshairs on the second man, the one with the cell phone.
Squeeze, boom, pop. His ears automatically went into audio-occlusion due to the concussion of the blast.
Lassiter swiveled the barrel to the third man and repeated the action.
Squeeze, boom, pop. He immediately got up and sprinted toward the semi, circling and pausing periodically to check for any more hostiles. Everything looked pacific in the tranquil green field of display. When he got to the scene, he checked his fallen men first. All dead.
It looked as if they’d been caught off guard. They probably thought the real action was unfolding down the dirt road. The hostiles were all dead, too, and Lassiter dragged the bodies to the side of the road and quickly went through their pockets, but found nothing in the way of IDs. He did a cursory search of their van as well, again finding nothing in the way of traceable identifiers. This was beginning to take on all the earmarks of a Company operation. He did find a GSP with this location blinking. Somebody had planted a tracker on either the semi or his van.
But who? And why? Although the why might take a bit of figuring, he already had a good idea about the who.
All that would have to wait a bit longer, he thought. He had a mess that he had to clean up.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_b777de8a-4ca9-5ed3-8e69-ab331baa5e71)
Bolan watched as the mountainous terrain of the dry Arizona landscape became gradually bisected with ribbons of highway that intersected with small clusters of buildings and finally with larger towns and cities. As they neared Tucson, the expanse of buildings and civilization grew denser, but Bolan wondered what it had looked like back in the day, when the first settlers edged westward, facing the adversity of the savage land. The tops of some of the mountains, he noticed, were blackened from the summer’s wildfires. He’d spent more years than he cared to remember putting out wildfires of a different type.
Grimaldi banked the plane and began calling the airport to report their approach. When they’d been cleared for landing he swiveled toward Bolan, who sat in the copilot’s seat, and grinned.
“See? Aren’t you glad we waited until morning before we took off?” he asked.
Bolan said nothing as he watched the ground gradually getting closer and closer.
Grimaldi spoke again to the control tower and slowed the Learjet’s descent a bit more.
They were at perhaps five hundred feet now, going over a shopping center and a ball field. When they touched down about thirty seconds later it was as easy as a limousine making a lane change on a freeway.
“And how’s that for the epitome of smoothness?” he asked.
“Careful,” Bolan said. “Don’t strain your arm patting yourself on the back.”
Grimaldi snorted a laugh as he radioed for instructions on proceeding to the appropriate location. Then he turned to Bolan as he steered the plane. “Well, at least I got you to talk. You hardly said two words during the whole trip.”
“I was just thinking how screwed up things have gotten with this one already.”
“That isn’t our fault.”
“No, but it means we’ve inherited a can of worms, as the saying goes.”
Grimaldi taxied the jet toward the section of private aircraft hangers. A man wearing a vest with brightly colored orange stripes directed them to proceed to the right, where an open hangar awaited.
“So what’s our first move?” Grimaldi asked. “After we secure this baby and our gear, of course.”
Bolan had been thinking about how to proceed, and there seemed to be only one course open to them at the moment. “We’re going to see a couple guys about a chopper.”
“Hot damn,” Grimaldi said. “One of my favorite things to do.”
* * *
RIGELLO TRANSPORT AND TOURS was on the edge of town in what appeared to be an unincorporated part of the county, about half a mile beyond the city limits sign for South Tucson. The business itself had a dirt parking lot that gradually gave way to an expanse of asphalt and a long driveway. Three brick buildings with tinted windows were adjacent to the paved lot, and beyond that Bolan could see an extensive area holding neat rows of dilapidated aircraft, trucks, cars and motorcycles.
As they drove by, Bolan noticed a large metallic sign on the front that read Rigello Transport & Tours. By Appointment Only. The big junkyard out back was surrounded by a seven-foot-high cyclone fence topped with three strands of barbed wire, and an additional hand-painted sign on the front gates said, To Hell with the Dog. Beware of the Owneres.
“Obviously, we’re about to come into contact with a couple of real Rhodes Scholars,” Grimaldi said, looking at the misspelling through the passenger window.
He and Bolan had rented a black Escalade with tinted windows, and the air-conditioning was going full blast as the dark SUV sat idling in the late afternoon heat. They’d also opted to wear dark suits, white shirts, ties and sunglasses to fit the role of federal agents.
“We look like refuges from a Men in Black movie,” Grimaldi said.
Bolan was studying the layout, figuring where the points of entry and egress were, estimating the approximate locations of the bathrooms by the vent pipes on the roof, and trying to get a feel for the place. He also was watchful for any human activities, but there were none visible.
“Not really a hotbed of commercial activity, is it?” Grimaldi asked, leaning back in the passenger seat. He took off the nondescript baseball cap and began fanning some of the cold air pouring from the vents toward himself.
“Go try the door,” Bolan said.
“Why me?” Grimaldi winced as he looked outside. “It’s gotta be a hundred and five degrees out there.”
“But it’s a dry heat.” Bolan grinned as he stopped the Escalade.
Grimaldi heaved a sigh and opened the door. He stepped out and slipped on his suit jacket, pantomiming some heavy panting as he said, “Dry or not, it’s damned hot.” He fanned himself with his open palm as he walked slowly to the front door and twisted the knob. The door opened.
The pilot turned toward Bolan with a wide grin, waved and went inside. Bolan pulled into a parking space nearest the door and followed him.
The room was divided into two sections, with a solid rear door leading somewhere. A pair of opaque, plastic shells, about the size of small coffeepots, was affixed to opposite walls, no doubt housing cameras. Their positioning would give a clear view of the entire space 3x to anyone monitoring them.
The office area was rather small, tucked behind the crudely built wooden counter that served as the divider. Metal shelving units behind the counter held stacks of dusty boxes. Crumpled bags from various fast-food restaurants and half-crushed foam coffee cups littered the floor around a small, overflowing garbage can. The place smelled of smoked cigarettes, half-eaten burgers and body odor. A trace of booze lingered in the air as well, like a slightly noticeable aftershave.
A lone figure sat at a small gray desk that held a tattered notebook, a telephone and a calendar.
Grimaldi was already engaged in conversation with him.
“What do you mean, you’re closed?” he asked. “The front door was open.”
“That don’t mean nothing,” the man said. He was a short, gray-bearded guy with an aquiline nose and a handkerchief tied over the front of his head, giving way to a long ponytail in back. His light blue T-shirt was stretched tightly over a belly that indicated a rather flabby, out-of-shape body. Huge rings of sweat radiated from each armpit. He wore a holstered Glock on his right side.
“I’m doing office work at moment. You want to make an appointment, call that number and leave a message.” From the way he spoke Bolan could tell he was missing some teeth in front. The man pointed to a handwritten notice on the wall.
“Actually,” Bolan said, breaking into the conversation, “we won’t take much of your time.” He held up an official-looking credential identifying him as Special Agent Matthew Cooper of the Justice Department. “We need to talk to you about some helicopters you rented.”
The man behind the counter cocked his head back and regarded both of them. His mouth gaped slightly, and his lips twisted into what might have passed for a smile in more pleasant surroundings.
“What exactly are you looking for?” he asked.
Bolan stepped to the counter and took out his notebook as Grimaldi walked to the windows on the opposite end of the room.
