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  The thudding feet had stopped. Another shout, this time in English, boomed up the stairs, echoing and distorted in the hard, narrow well. It was erased almost immediately by the sharp crack of a pistol. A quick burst erupted from the Galil. Then there was dead silence.

  The running feet picked up again; they were coming back his way. Bolan moved to the next landing and crouched, with his back against the wall. He could hear the hoarse rasp of the man's breath as he strained to climb back the way he had come.

  The second gunner appeared, looking back over his shoulder, and Bolan shouted, "Hold it right there."

  The startled head swiveled. The man looked down the stairs, then up at Bolan and back down again, as if trying to choose between heaven and hell. He shrugged once, took a step up and swung around his Galil.

  Bolan fired once. The heavy .44 slug sent the knit cap spiraling down the stairs. Its owner threw up his hands, then vanished in an ungainly back flip. The submachine gun arced up in a graceful half loop, then dropped straight down the center of the stairwell. Bolan heard the heavy thud as the body hit on the stairs and stopped dead. A second later the gun slammed into the concrete far below, went off once, then died.

  The Executioner stopped halfway down the flight, just long enough to check the man's pulse. He heard footsteps on the landing below and slipped another clip into his big weapon. Bracing himself for another assault, he found himself aiming at a surprised Gil Hoffman.

  "I thought this was a safehouse," Bolan said.

  Hoffman shook his head. "We've got trouble. Let's get out of here. I'll tell you about it on the way."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Guillermo Pagan sat behind a scarred metal desk, the gray paint veneered in cigarette tar, which gave it a dull bronze finish. He chewed thoughtfully on a cigar, a Cuban, which he allowed was the only reason he had never killed Fidel Castro. Pagan liked to talk big. Everything about him was outsize, including his paunch, which seemed premature on a man just past forty.

  Pagan affected a military demeanor, and his fatigues, which had been custom-tailored, did battle with the advancing stomach. Trained at Fort Leavenworth, a lieutenant colonel in Somoza's National Guard, Pagan had been noted for his sharp mind and quick temper. When he fled Nicaragua, he had left neither behind.

  Swarthy complexion darkened further by his favorite tanning salon, Pagan looked like a caricature of the Central American dictator gone to seed — which was exactly what he was. Unfortunately he had never quite managed to rule Nicaragua single-handedly, like his mentor, Anastasio Somoza DeBayle, but that had done nothing to prevent him from acquiring all the gestures and, perhaps more importantly, the attitudes.

  Now, years away from any real influence in his native country, he still stung from the insulting haste with which he had been forced to leave. His cheeks still burned whenever he thought about it, and it was never very far from his mind.

  He had sold himself to the Americans, and now they wanted to throw him away like a used tissue. But they had no idea who they were dealing with. He would show them, and they wouldn't forget it for a long, long time. They were "rethinking their options," figuring that soft-bellied pig Rivera could take his place. Well, he thought, let them. He had options of his own, options they'd never dreamed of.

  Vincent Arledge, who had known him when he was the bright young star, skyrocketing through the rather murky firmament that was the National Guard, waited patiently for Pagan to frame his next thought. It was likely to be a while, since Pagan never said anything he didn't mean. And he never meant anything he hadn't thought about carefully.

  Finally, when the silence had thickened noticeably, Pagan cleared his throat. "I think we have no choice, Ernesto."

  "I already told you that." Arledge smiled at the use of his old nom de guerre. It had been a long time since anyone had used it, but he still relished its irony, chosen in mocking salute to the late Che Guevara, at whose demise he had been in conspicuous attendance. "I've already put somebody on it."

  "Somebody good?"

  "Somebody who can get the job done."

  "Hoffman was a good man once," Pagan said, his voice tinged a little with a regret he didn't feel but recognized as appropriate.

  "Past tense is appropriate."

  "When?"

  "The sooner the better. I already spoke to Bartlett about him. He was receptive."

  "I lost a shipment a few days ago."

  "I heard. But that wasn't Hoffman."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "He didn't know anything about it. He couldn't have."

  "How do you explain it, then?"

  Arledge shrugged. "There's a dozen possibilities. Who knows?"

  "I don't want it to happen again."

  Arledge nodded. "Naturally. But I don't control the whole world, you know."

  "Then get me to the man who does." Pagan laughed, but he was serious.

  Arledge watched him for a long moment. When he spoke, there was an edge to his voice that made Pagan's skin crawl. "You know, Willie, you're not the only duck in the pond. Miami is full of Somocistas. We thought you understood how things work and were willing to play by our rules."

  "Haven't I?"

  "Bullshit like you just gave me isn't going to go down too well."

  "Ernesto, this is a game to you. That's why you talk about rules. But we're talking about my country. I'm a patriot and I'm concerned with things you know nothing about."

  "Bullshit! Willie, all you want is to be the man who cuts the pie. The plain truth is, all we want is someone to cut it the way we want it cut. If not you, then somebody else. It's our pie and our knife, Willie. You better sleep on that a day or two. Let it sink in, amigo. You can't live with it, then it'll be adiós, and ain't nobody I know gonna lose a minute's sleep over it. Bartlett's pushing hard for Rivera. Gardner is leaning, but I can prop him up. But not forever."

  Pagan shifted in his chair. His weight came forward and the chair creaked under him. Suddenly conscious of the extra weight, he sucked in his gut. "You know, Ernesto, you gringos just don't understand. You have all these guns, lots of money, and still you have to come to me. You have to use my money. And you don't even give a damn where I get it as long as I do. Maybe you should sleep on that for a day or two…"

  "Willie, don't fuck with me, understand?" Rubbing his palms together with a look of distaste, Arledge continued. "A bug, Willie, that's all you are. A bug. We can crush you and scatter the pieces to the four winds."

  Pagan grinned. "You think so, Ernesto?"

  "I know so, pal."

  Pagan snapped his fingers. A door opened behind Arledge, and he turned to glare at the interruption. Two men, dressed in the same tight fatigues, cradling Israeli Galils in crooked arras, stood passively in the open door.

  "You see these men, Ernesto? These men do what I say. I say cut off your balls, they do it. I say put a hole in your head, all they ask is how big I want it. Understand me?"

  "Don't threaten me, Willie. This is five-and-dime theatrics. You don't have the clout here. You might kill me, but your ass will roast over an open fire if you do. I can guarantee it."

  "Hey, Ernesto, guarantees don't mean anything. You remember the last guarantee you made me? Do you? How Somoza would be back in six months? That was, what, eight years ago? How's that guarantee coming? Still in effect?"

  "The game changed when Somoza bought it. You know that."

  "That's my point, Ernesto. The game's changed. Now the rules are my rules. It's my ball. If I don't want to play, there's no game. Comprende?"

  "You're like all the others, Willie. Small time. You want to be El Jefe so bad, you got a garage full of sunglasses."

  "Which I bought with my money, Ernesto. Everything I have, I bought with my money. You used to tell me how your Congress was a bunch of assholes in your hip pocket. You could do what you wanted, regardless of what they said. I don't see that anymore. I don't hear you even suggest it anymore."

  "A small glitch, no more than th
at."

  "A small glitch. I don't know this word glitch. But I know your puppet shows play to empty houses now. Chamorro, Pastora, Bermudez. Faded stars, all of them, Ernesto. They have come and gone. But I'm still center stage. I play to packed houses."

  "There's still Rivera."

  "Rivera's nothing more than a straw man. He can do nothing." Mocking Arledge, Pagan rubbed his palms together. "Rivera's a little bug. I can crush him. Anytime and anyplace I choose."

  "If memory serves, it was your house that got blown up the other night, not Rivera's."

  "A small 'glitch, no more than that. And I will find out who did it. I will take care of it in my own way." He nodded, and the two guards withdrew, closing the door softly. When they were gone, Pagan leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially. "You didn't happen to have anything to do with that, by any chance, did you, Ernesto?"

  "If I did, you wouldn't be here now, Willie. No way."

  "Big talk, amigo. Very big talk."

  "Look, let's get down to it. We've got to take Hoffman out of the picture."

  "How much?"

  "Fifty K."

  Pagan nodded slowly. "Mucho dinero."

  "We've got to make it clean. Surgical. No fuck-ups. I've already told you that I got the best. The best doesn't come cheap."

  Pagan reached for a drawer in the desk. Arledge tensed noticeably. Pagan laughed. "Nervous, Ernesto?"

  Arledge shook his head. "A little. Things are too crazy lately."

  "Roll with it, amigo. We don't want to be too predictable, after all. This is serious business."

  "Yeah, it is."

  Pagan jerked a brown envelope out of the drawer. He opened the flap and wet his thumb. Counting quickly, he stopped at fifty, pulled the rest out of the envelope and shoved it back into the drawer. He licked the flap, closed it, then pressed it flat with his palm. Tossing it across the desk, he said, "Don't spend it all in one place, Ernesto."

  "Money tight?"

  "No. But I'm a simple man. I come from peasant stock. I'm frugal, to a fault perhaps. But then I, too, don't like how crazy things have become. Poor management, Ernesto. We'll have to do something about that."

  "I'm trying. But there are problems."

  "Anything I can help with?"

  "Not that kind of problem. Bureaucratic shit. But I can handle it. It'll shake out okay."

  "Soon, I hope."

  Arledge nodded. "Soon, yes."

  "Take care of Hoffman. But remember, Gil was a friend of mine. I want it quick and painless."

  "I understand that. And I'd be the last one to blame a man for developing a conscience, even if it is rather late in the game."

  "Too late, it would seem."

  Arledge didn't answer. He stood, tucking the envelope inside his shirt. "I've got a meeting with Akhmani. He's going to supply two thousand assault rifles. Czech AK-47s."

  "How much will you need?"

  "We're going to hash that over tonight. I'll let you know."

  "Don't let him hold us up."

  "I won't." He turned and left without saying goodbye.

  Pagan sat there, listening to the sound of Arledge's footsteps on the concrete floor of the warehouse. There seemed to be tiny voices whispering high in the girders, as if someone were gossiping about the man walking by. He wasn't happy with the meeting, but he wasn't sure why.

  There was something bothering Arledge. Pagan couldn't put his finger on it, but the man was coiled like a rattlesnake ready to strike at anything that moved. This wasn't the old Vincent Arledge, the man he'd known for a dozen years.

  Arledge was under a lot of stress. That was clear. But stress was part of his life; he should be used to it by now. Maybe there really was something to the threat that Rivera would supplant him in the affections of Charles Gardner. It didn't make sense, but then very little in the boiling caldron of Miami made sense.

  He could find out, of course. He could find out anything, if he had enough time. There were no secrets in Miami. It was just that some stories had higher prices than others. He could ignore it, ignore Rivera, ignore Arledge and his dancing eyes. He had noticed that Arledge couldn't even keep his hands under control. In his lap the fingers had squirmed, and Arledge had knit them together to keep them still. But even then the muscles had twitched, as if something alive had been trying to get out through the skin.

  Pagan tossed his cigar away and pulled a fresh one from his shirt pocket. He unwrapped it slowly, running it under his nose and inhaling deeply. He smiled at the aroma, so pungent, so fresh. Then the smile vanished. He was in danger of becoming fat and sloppy.

  Too complacent already, the good life weighed him down like lead in his pockets. Maybe it was time to strike out on his own, instead of letting Arledge do all the legwork. He had begun to feel more and more like a canary in a cage. But the safety was deceptive.

  After all, didn't they take canaries into the mines? And weren't they the first to die?

  Chapter Seventeen

  The security was heavy. Bolan drifted to a stop at the main gate and rolled down his window to hand over his ID and a note from Rivera to a guard. The man walked to the front of the car while another, armed with an Uzi, took his place beside Bolan's window. The tall man held the documents in front of the car's headlights, then backed into the shadows. Through the open window, the warrior could hear him talking to someone on a transceiver. Bolan drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he waited.

  Five minutes later the tall man reappeared, passed the papers back to Bolan and waved him on. A winding drive, lined with cypresses on both sides, led off into the darkness. Fifty yards inside the fence, he spotted an open jeep, half hidden in dense shrubbery. Two men sat in the vehicle, one at the wheel and one at the gun mount in the rear. As Bolan passed, the jeep fell in behind him.

  A dull halo surrounded a bank of trees, cutting across his line of vision, then disappeared as the drive swerved abruptly left. In a series of sinuous curves the tree-lined lane covered another hundred yards, then the lights reappeared as it swung back to the right into a thirty-yard straightaway. A three-story house, dwarfed by the trees, appeared in snatches, its walls bathed in light from hidden floods. The gravel under his tires crunched loudly as he swung into a circular driveway and braked. A glance in the mirror showed him the jeep was still on his tail.

  A broad stone patio, roofless and lined with sparkling white planters, led up to a massive doorway. Two armed men dressed in fatigues stood at attention, one on either side of the door. Through the thick glass of the door, Bolan spotted several more men in a dimly lit foyer. He walked to the door and handed his papers to the guard on the right, who glanced at them. He rapped on the glass, then handed the papers back. A man inside unlocked the door and pushed it open for Bolan to enter.

  The door closed behind the warrior, and he was immediately surrounded by men who proceeded to pat him down. They found the .44 and confiscated it. The inner door was opened and Bolan passed through. A short man, his bent back and gnarled hands evidence of crippling arthritis, shuffled ahead, waving Bolan to follow him. The stooped gnome led him up a winding staircase into a long hall.

  The man paused at an ornately carved wooden door, which he pushed open after a sharp double knock. Then he bowed to usher Bolan through. The door closed behind the big man with a soft thump.

  Emiliano Rivera sat on a leather couch, a book open in his lap. Bolan looked around in surprise. All four walls were lined with books from ceiling to floor.

  "You look confused, Mr. Belasko," Rivera said, getting to his feet.

  "A little. I didn't expect this, I guess."

  "El Caudillo isn't supposed to be contemplative, is that it? A man of action who knows Clausewitz and Machiavelli, maybe Sun Tsu if he's trendy, but not a scholar?"

  "Something like that."

  "Stereotypes, Mr. Belasko, are dangerous. And not only to those who are typed. It's important to confront the world with an active, unprejudiced intelligence."

 
; "Sometimes, yes."

  "Would you be more comfortable if I put on mirrored sunglasses and a uniform?"

  "Don't patronize me, Rivera."

  "Of course not, but if we're to be colleagues, I think we should speak plainly. I think we should understand each other as fully as any two men who share a common problem can."

  "We don't share a problem, General. It's your problem, not mine. I've volunteered to help you solve it, no more than that."

  "But no less, either, eh?"

  "That goes without saying."

  "Nothing, Mr. Belasko, goes without saying, not as far as I'm concerned. In a way, my fate will be in your hands as much as in my own. That makes it of grave importance to me to know what you're thinking at all times. That, and my natural curiosity."

  "I don't give a damn about your natural curiosity."

  Rivera bent to retrieve his book from the couch. He held it toward Bolan. "Spinoza. Do you know him?"

  "No."

  "He says that statesmen are esteemed as more crafty than learned. That's a stereotype, and it seems to me that, insofar as you're concerned, it applies to me. That may have been true at one time, but no more. The sooner you accept that, the sooner we'll get along."

  "We don't have to get along. I don't have to like you or to respect you. I have a job to do, that's all. Don't waste your time trying to impress me. I've done a little reading of my own. I know more about you than you think, and there wasn't much there to like or respect."

  "Another life, Mr. Belasko. Another era. Let's take a walk in the garden. I find it tranquilizing."

  Without waiting for an answer, he crossed the library and opened the door. By the time Bolan reached the doorway, Rivera was halfway down the hall. The warrior trailed behind and caught up to him at the top of the staircase. He was conscious of the men below watching him. He was even more conscious of the empty holster on his hip. They descended the steps in tandem, neither man saying a word.

  Rivera rapped on the glass of the inner door, and one of the guards opened it. The general stepped through and Bolan followed. The guard was about to open the outer door when Bolan stopped him. "My gun," he demanded.