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  Delgado smiled. "I'm gonna keep guessing, if you don't mind. I think that these folks have had their Second Amendment rights curtailed, and you're looking to rectify that under the table?"

  "Yeah, but like I said, I got a line on what I need."

  "What if I make you a better offer?"

  Bolan hesitated. "I'm listening."

  "My old lieutenant, the one I told you about?"

  The Executioner nodded.

  "Well, I'm working for him now. And we got us a shipment the buyer of which just had to pull out unexpectedly."

  Within an hour, Bolan was in the Olds again, driving back to Route 1. He went north initially, away from Summerland Key, wanting to make sure he wasn't being tailed. Once he was sure, he took a circuitous route around Key Largo before going back south. He got off the Overseas Highway at Big Pine Key and drove around some side streets before returning to the main road and thence to Summerland Key.

  To his abject shock, Maxwell was sitting in the living room of the safehouse, reading one of the books that had been left on a bookshelf.

  She tossed the paperback aside at his entrance and got to her feet.

  "Well?"

  "Mike Burns is meeting with Danny Delgado and Kevin Lee tonight at Cow Key Marina on Stock Island to discuss the possible purchase of some weaponry."

  Maxwell nodded. "Makes sense. That's a pretty public area — means the meet should stay civil."

  "I'm not counting on that. For one thing, the meet's on a back road, near a private dock."

  "Figures. When is it?" Maxwell asked.

  "Sunset."

  Folding her arms over her chest, Maxwell said, "I'm going with you."

  Bolan looked at her as if she were insane. "They know who you are, Maxwell. You can't..."

  Waving one arm back and forth in front of her face, she said, "I don't mean standing next to you, I mean I should be nearby with my handy-dandy 7.62 mm WASR-10 rifle, with itsjust as handy-dandy Pentax Lightseeker XL scope, with which I will be able to see all the action and give you a hand if it goes wrong."

  At that, the Executioner hesitated. Having a sniper who knew the terrain would be handy — but he still didn't entirely trust Maxwell.

  On the other hand, the meet was in three hours. He doubted he could get any backup from Stony Man on such short notice.

  Then a thought occurred to him. "Those items are, I presume, at your residence?"

  "You presume incorrectly." Maxwell grinned and blew him a kiss. "They're in the trunk of the Mini Cooper I borrowed from a friend — and don't worry, it's a friend who's not in the game at all. She's a bartender at Cutter's Wharf."

  Bolan rolled his eyes. "You went back home to get them, didn't you?"

  "There was nobody there, although I could tell that someone had broken in after we left. Christ, they even left Jiminez's body. I thought for sure they'd take it."

  "Probably hoping a neighbor would notice the smell and call the cops. If there's an APB put out on you, it might flush you out."

  Maxwell snorted. "Anyhow, I got fresh clothes — which are now in that bedroom," she added, pointing at the same room Erica had used the previous night, "some ammo and a few other necessities, then I left. Nobody tailed me, and they weren't watching the house."

  "You sure? This operation doesn't strike me as being that sloppy."

  "Yeah, but they are shorthanded and having a crisis. They probably don't have the manpower to do that kind of surveillance work."

  "Fine, get out of here, then."

  Maxwell frowned. "Excuse me?"

  "If you're going to be my backup, I want you in place now. Pack some food and a canteen, and bring a jar to pee in."

  Maxwell shot him a look. "Urn, in case you didn't notice, I'm kinda, y'know — female. Peeing in a jar isn't exactly our thing."

  "You'll manage," Bolan said with a total lack of interest. "The point is, I want you ready to go. And if you see anything strange, call me."

  With an exaggerated sigh, Maxwell headed toward the bedroom. "Good thing I packed some heavier clothes. It gets kind of breezy on the marina."

  Bolan wasn't too concerned about anything happening early, especially since Lee and his people were likely running around like headless chickens after the events of the previous night.

  But it got Maxwell out of his hair for a couple of hours, and he couldn't bring himself to complain about that.

  So far, things were proceeding better than expected. Once he found out where Lee kept the guns — Maxwell seemed to think they'd be on Lee's yacht, but he needed to know for sure — he could take out Lee and Delgado both, secure the weapons and the mission would be over.

  Of course, in Bolan's experience, things were never quite that easy....

  12

  Bolan hadn't heard a word from Maxwell since her departure to set up for the meet, which meant one of two things: she was all set and there were no problems or there was a huge problem, so bad that calling him wasn't possible because she was captured or dead.

  Either way, the Executioner's play remained the same — attend the meet in character and learn the location of the guns.

  Then make sure those guns never get into the wrong hands and put Lee and Delgado out of business.

  Bolan drove in Faraday's Olds to the Overseas Highway. The sun was starting to set, and it painted the sky over the Gulf of Mexico a spectacular panorama of purples and oranges.

  Traffic was moving slowly on Route 1, so Bolan had a relatively easy time splitting his focus between the road and the spectacular view. It was a clear day, and what few clouds there were in the sky just added to the landscape of color.

  The Executioner didn't often get the chance to simply sit back and enjoy the scenery.

  As he went over the bridge from Boca Chica Key to Stock Island, he saw a man, a woman, and two kids, a boy and a girl, neither of whom was more than ten years old. Presumably two parents with their children, they were standing at the railing of the bridge on the walkway along the shoulder, staring out at the sunset. As he drove slowly by, Bolan noticed the girl was pointing at the water where a dolphin was briefly jumping out of the water before diving back under.

  It was good to occasionally be reminded of what it was, exactly, that he was fighting for.

  Thus braced, he continued over the bridge and then took a left at Cross Street. Following that to Fifth Avenue, he made a right and continued until he reached the marina.

  Delgado's directions had been very specific. Just before Fifth hit the marina, there was a dirt driveway, down which Bolan drove. Three other vehicles were parked at the end of it: a black SUV, a white Lexus, and the same beige Cutlass that he'd parked next to in the diner parking lot earlier that afternoon.

  Beyond the three cars were two palm trees, and past them an enclosed dock and a supply shed. Further along, down the coastline, were other docks and sheds and various other constructions continuing out of sight.

  The Executioner hoped that Maxwell had taken up position on one of the sheds or docks that were a bit farther down the shore. The effective range of her Kalashnikov knock-off rifle was about a hundred yards — farther if you didn't particularly want to hit anything, but just cause a fuss. None of the docks and sheds were more than twenty feet off the ground, so she could've been as far as the distance of a football field away and still have a clear shot.

  Two men had set up a card table and were playing gin rummy. The table was set up about thirty feet in front of the four cars, and as Bolan pulled up, one of them signaled to the three people who were standing in front of the SUV.

  Bolan recognized both men at the card table from Micky's the night Kenny V was shot. One, in fact, was the pockmarked Latino who'd signaled Dayton to kill "Hot Lips."

  Now Bolan really hoped that Maxwell was in place. If those two kept with their card game, things would be fine, but if they got a look at Bolan's face, the whole thing would go to hell quickly.

  One of the people standing by the SUV was Danny Delga
do, his portfolio tucked securely under his arm. Next to him was a tall sandy-haired man whose face matched the picture in the file on Kevin Lee that Bolan had read on the laptop on the plane. Bolan didn't recognize the third person, a short African American with thick plastic glasses.

  Cutting the ignition to the Olds, Bolan opened the door and slowly climbed out, not wishing to make any sudden moves.

  The Executioner couldn't help but notice that everyone present was armed — except for Kevin Lee.

  Bolan had come to the meet armed and saw no reason to hide it, so his weapon was quite visible in his shoulder holster as he walked toward Lee, Delgado and the short man.

  "So you're Mike Burns, the arms dealer."

  Bolan grinned. "Nah, like I told Danny here, I'm just a facilitator. See, some folks need to buy things, and some folks need to sell things. I bring 'em together. You must be Kevin Lee, and you really are an arms dealer."

  Bolan offered his hand, and Lee returned the handshake.

  Looking down at his holster, Lee asked, "Desert Eagle?"

  Bolan nodded. "Mark XIX. Got the kick of a Missouri mule, but it gets the job done."

  "I suppose — if you want the job to be to destroy everything in your path." Lee smiled as he said it. "I prefer more elegant weaponry. Blades, I've found, have more poetry to them. Plus, it makes the battle more personal. Guns provide too much distance, and a .357 is just a miniature cannon."

  "So, what, you're a sword-and-dagger guy?" Bolan asked.

  "Yes, since leaving the Corps, I've started collecting swords, actually. Perhaps someday you can see my collection."

  "Not my thing, really. I don't give a rat's ass if the battle's personal or not, long as I win it, know what I mean?" He patted the Desert Eagle. "I figure I stand a much better chance with this than something that ain't nobody used for a couple hundred years."

  Lee tilted his head. "To each his own. Mr. Delgado tells me that you have an interest in purchasing some crude weaponry of your own on behalf of a collection of racists."

  Holding up his hands, Bolan said, "Hey look, I don't make judgments, okay? Their money's as good as anyone's — and they got plenty of it."

  "Really?"

  "Why so surprised?"

  "I've dealt with the likes of your Oklahoma Pride group, Mr. Burns. They tend to be well-stocked with people who blame their economic difficulties on people with skin darker than theirs rather than their own terminal incompetence. Such people usually do not have the funds to procure mass quantities of firearms."

  "Well, if we were just talking about the membership, you'd be absolutely right, Mr. Lee. But see, OP's founder is a fella who owns a whole mess of cattle farms. Through good times and bad, folks always need meat, so he's doin' pretty good for himself."

  Lee rubbed his chin. "All right, Mr. Burns, we might be able to do business. I have available ten crates of guns, including two crates of thirty AK-74s per, four crates of twenty MAC-11s per, two crates of fifty police-issue 9 mm Berettas per, and two crates of ten Smith & Wesson M&P15T rifles per. That's two hundred and sixty firearms of assorted kind."

  Then Lee named a price.

  While the price itself was eminently reasonable, Bolan deliberately guffawed. "You're kidding, right? Guy I was talking to this morning was offering me a full four hundred pieces — including some MAC-10s — for half that price."

  "You expect me to believe that?"

  Bolan shrugged. "Okay, maybe it was three-quarters. But still..."

  "Let me guess — your other offer are weapons that were stolen?"

  "Yeah, with the serials burned off."

  Lee smiled. "Our weapons are off the grid, Mr. Burns. All of them were targeted for destruction by various law-enforcement agencies, and according to any paperwork you care to dig up, they have been destroyed."

  "That don't make 'em untraceable."

  "True, but nobody's looking for them, either."

  Bolan pretended to consider it. "Tell you what — you give me the same price them other folks gave me, and I'll do it." Holding up a hand to stave off Lee's next objection, Bolan said, "And before you try another sales pitch on me, Mr. Lee, I should point out that I'm a gift from God right now. You got ten crates of guns and no buyers, and I'm betting you need to offload 'em sooner rather than later. I ain't in any kind of rush, and if I don't like your terms, I got other sources. You got anyone else willing to bankroll this?"

  Lee turned and gave Delgado a nasty look. The Executioner had the feeling that Lee was going to have serious words with the man on the subject of giving too much information away. The advantage of befriending Delgado as a fellow ex-jarhead was that he was more willing to part with vital intel to a friendly face.

  Then Lee spoke words that surprised Bolan. "I'm afraid I can't simply agree to this deal myself. I'm only authorized to make the deal at the amount I quoted. I'll need to check before I can say yes to the lower price."

  The Executioner was, naturally, too much of a professional to react in any way to this information. Outwardly, all he did was shrug and say, "Fine, like I said, I ain't in a rush. Talk to your people, and we can do this thing when you're ready."

  Inwardly, though, Bolan's stomach churned. He'd read every piece of documentation that Stony Man had provided, which included information from sources ranging from the Key West Police and the Monroe County Sheriff's Office all the way up to the FBI and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, and none of them mentioned anyone above Kevin Lee.

  With a mere three sentences, Lee had changed the game — and the mission — completely.

  Suddenly, taking Lee and Delgado out wasn't enough. Now Bolan had to not only find out where the guns were, but also who Lee's boss was.

  One of those could be accomplished now, at least.

  "Any chance," Bolan asked, "of me getting a peek at the merchandise?"

  "Depends," Lee said with a smile. "Any chance of me getting a peek at your cash?"

  Bolan chuckled aloud and silently cursed. He'd been hoping they'd at least let him inspect the merchandise, especially if it was on a boat, and therefore relatively easy to secure, but he also couldn't bring himself to be surprised that Lee would be skittish on the subject.

  "Fair enough, Mr. Lee. You've got my number. Let me know when we do this right. And hey, Danny?"

  "Yeah?" Delgado asked.

  "Maybe I'll see you tonight at Hot Keys."

  "Maybe," Delgado said neutrally, and with a nervous glance at Lee.

  Based on the body language, Lee wasn't thrilled with Delgado's handling of things.

  Which was probably why Delgado added, "I'm sure we can get this done, Mike, you watch."

  "I don't doubt a thing. I'm sure your boss, whoever he is, knows a good deal when he sees it."

  Delgado was about to reply, but Lee cut him off with a stern look.

  Then Lee looked at the third man and said, "Let's move out."

  The third man signaled to the cardplayers with a quick whistle. They packed up their cards and folded the table in quick succession while Bolan went back to the Olds.

  Just as Bolan opened the door, the pockmarked Latino walked past the Olds.

  His eyes went wide, and he pulled out a Glock 17, aiming it right at Bolan's head.

  Bolan's hand was on his Desert Eagle, but relative to the Latino, he had the car between them. Before he'd be able to draw the .357 and aim it, the Latino would have the opportunity to pull the trigger twice.

  So Bolan stayed in character. "Put that thing down, pal!"

  "Martinez," Lee said, "what the hell?"

  "This is the asshole who chased after Dayton and knocked him off the road! I seen him in Micky's!"

  That got his cohort to take out his own weapon, a 9 mm Glock 19.

  Before anything else could happen, a short 7.62 mm round tore into Martinez's pockmarked cheek, destroying the right side of his jaw in an instant, and continuing through to the base of the neck, severing his spinal cord from his brain st
em.

  For the first time since arriving in Florida, the Executioner was grateful for the presence of Maxwell. The Romanian WASRs — variants on the Russian AK-47s — were not precision weapons, and getting so good a shot took incredible skill — not to mention a certain amount of luck.

  The shock of Martinez's death distracted Lee's men long enough for Bolan to unholster his Desert Eagle and fire it at Martinez's fellow rummy player.

  The .357 round shattered the man's sternum, shredded his lungs and made goulash of his spine on the way out his back. He fell backward, instantly dead, in a bloody pool on the ground.

  As he had at Faraday's house, Bolan used the recoil from the Desert Eagle to aid him in taking cover, falling to the ground behind the Olds.

  For their part, Delgado and the man with the glasses both unholstered their own weapons. Delgado was carrying a Heckler & Koch USP handgun, while the other man favored a 9 mm Beretta. Lee took several steps backward to stay protected by his two lieutenants.

  Neither of those two weapons were armor-piercing, so the sturdy metal frame of the thirty-year-old car was more than ample protection for Bolan, who was suddenly grateful that Jean-Louis Faraday didn't own a newer car that had more plastic than metal, and was therefore far more fragile.

  Most of the rounds either ricocheted harmlessly off the frame of the Olds, or whizzed past it, hitting neither the car nor the Executioner. Both men fired continuously, so for Bolan it was simply a matter of waiting until they both ran out of ammo.

  If they were smart, they would have staggered their firing patterns so that one would run out first and reload while the other fired. But from the sounds of it, they were both going all-out at once, despite their target being behind a large piece of metal.

  Though their firing pattern showed a lack of fore-thought, Bolan did notice that one set of shots was coming from a different angle — and that angle became more obtuse with each moment. One of the men was moving slowly around so that the Executioner would be caught in a cross fire.

  On the roof of one of the enclosed docks, Maxwell peered through the Pentax Lightseeker XL scope, waiting for people to stop moving so she could get a decent shot.