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  He blinked his eyes, fighting clear of the memory.

  Hooter looked down at the corpse he'd riddled, and Thornton could see distaste on the big man's face.

  "What the hell happened?" Skeeter demanded from the plane.

  "Thought old Crazy Ron was still alive," Hooter said sheepishly. "Guess he wasn't after all, but I wanted to make sure."

  "Did you shoot into that coke?"

  "No, man, I took his face off. Damn flashlight made his eyes look like they was lookin' back at me. The coke's okay." He held up the pack to prove his point.

  "Just be careful of the coke, man. You damage it in this water, and you can kiss it goodbye."

  "I know, man. Stay off my back." Hooter threw the pack toward the plane, and it fell a couple yards short.

  "Get them closer, damn it. Do you think I like wadin' through this shit?"

  Hooter whirled around angrily. "You want to wade out here awhile, Skeeter? Turn over a few of these bodies yourself? These fuckin' Uzis make a hell of a mess when you turn them loose the way we did."

  "No, I 'pologize, man. I'm just ready to get the show on the road."

  "Me an' you both, brother," Hooter grumbled. "Me an' you both."

  Thornton waited till Skeeter was in the water, reaching for the floating pack, to make his move, knowing the biker would be unable to react as quickly in the swamp as he would have on the plane.

  Locking his boots into the mud, he stood straight up out of the water, ignoring the pain that flared through his side. He dropped the .45 into the center of Hooter's broad chest less than fifteen feet away and squeezed the trigger in rapid fire. He shot the man four times, swiveling in the water as the body fell, tracking back toward Skeeter.

  The biker was a dim shadow skating across the top of the swamp, flailing for the Uzi slung from his neck.

  Thornton punched three 185-grain hollowpoints at the man, shoving aside the dead body of Brokedick as he pushed himself forward through the mud. An angry scream filled his ears as he charged and it took him a second to realize the sound was coming from his own throat.

  Skeeter went down before the onslaught.

  A splashing noise grabbed his attention.

  Thornton turned, leveling the Smith.

  Hooter's head broke the surface weakly and the man bellowed in unrestrained fury.

  Two more bullets from the .45 kicked the big man's skull backward, and the rest of his body followed. The slide kicked blew back as the magazine emptied.

  His breath was rasping in his lungs, and pain constricted his chest, but Thornton slammed a fresh magazine home and made his way to Skeeter's position. He reached for the man's coat to haul him closer, then stabbed the heated muzzle of the pistol through the swamp water against the biker's face.

  "Easy, Skeeter. Move easy or I swear I'll take the top of your head off." He pulled the man free of the water.

  Skeeter choked, spluttering water weakly. Blood slipped across his pallid lips with it, but he smiled cockily. "Well, well, my man, it looks like you done kilt me." He coughed up more blood, darker than the swamp water it floated on.

  "You're not dead yet, Skeeter."

  "As good as, Spider. I can't feel my legs and 1 can tell I'm all tore up inside. Bleedin' in there, man. I can feel it."

  Holding the man's face only inches from his own, struggling against the mixture of emotions racing inside his head, Thornton said, "Why, Skeeter? Was it the money?"

  The eyelids fluttered closed for a moment, then flickered back open. "I won't shit you, man. I'm dying. Got nothin' to win by holdin' back on you now." He coughed, more weakly than before. "Cut a deal behind your back, Spider. Thought I had me a winnin' hand. Didn't know you'd be so fuckin' hard to kill."

  "What kind of deal?"

  "Young Vinnie, my man. He wanted you put down. Said if I delivered the coke instead of you, I'd get the money he was supposed to pay you." The words halted, as a paroxysm of coughing shook his body and choked him off. "I took the deal, Spider, only 'cause 1 couldn't turn it down. Never had somethin' so sweet shoved in my face before. I'd been thinkin' about me and Hooter trying' to heist it anyway and cut a deal with somebody else, never show Canada our faces again. Vinnie's lined up those out-of-town buyers. Figured me an' ol' Hooter coulda done the same, with a little luck." Spittle slipped through his lips, and he gave Thornton a wink and a bloody grin. "Thing ol' Vinnie didn't figure on is me gettin' kilt. Or maybe he ciphered that in somewhere and just figured on cuttin' down the odds stacked against him goin' in. Maybe by livin' long enough to tell you the true of it, I'm still gonna be part of the team. You get the chance, tell him I sent you. Best regards."

  Thornton used both hands to hold the dying man, feeling hot tears burn at the back of his eyes. Skeeter had been a part of his life for so long. They'd been friends. Even though the man had tried to kill him, they'd been friends. Knowing the biker mentality as he did, he knew that for Skeeter killing him hadn't been personal. It had only been one colossal joke, one that Thornton should have been able to understand even if he didn't empathize with it. Knowing the biker mentality? The thought seemed disjointed, incongruous with his feelings. A sensation of outsideness while inside the situation. They'll turn on you the first chance they get, the unidentified memory warned him again.

  Skeeter shivered in his arms, and a rattling sounded in the man's throat.

  "Goddamn you, Skeeter," Thornton swore as memories of the past few months trickled in and out of his thoughts. "Goddamn you for getting killed."

  "Had to be one of us, bro', had to be one of us." Skeeter lifted his head off Thornton's chest and smiled, the lights dimming in his eyes. "Been one hell of a ride, though."

  Thornton watched the biker's head slump forward, striking the injured area of his chest painfully. He held the man for a time, trying to find some sense of himself as he felt the swamp muck curling around his feet. Damn it. He'd never felt so lost and alone. Or had he? Other memories crowded in at him, unable to break through whatever barrier was keeping them out. He reached for them, feeling the slackness of Skeeter's body against his own, feeling the chill of the emptiness that threatened to consume him from inside. A tendril poked through the barrier in his mind, extending a name that led to other memories. Thad. God, he'd never had the chance to hold Thad like this. He recoiled from the memory in sheer terror, almost losing his balance in the swamp because the image that threatened to spill loose was so intensely physical.

  He blinked back tears, wishing he had the strength to pursue those thoughts that beckoned to him so seductively from the curtains of his mind, knowing subconsciously that if they were allowed into the reality of this moment, they would suck him dry. And an emotionless husk couldn't do what he intended to do. Couldn't take the fire of vengeance to Vinnie Corsini's front door and burn his house down.

  Thornton intended to. No matter what it cost him.

  He turned his mind from the past to the present and released Skeeter's body, wishing he had a better place to leave the man than in the fetid swamp water where anything might feed on him. Skeeter disappeared under the murky water.

  "Spider?" a voice called, and Thornton looked toward the sound of the man's voice, the .45 extended before him.

  "Hey, man, it's me. Wings."

  The silhouette hanging on the bobbing wing of the Cessna fell into quick target acquisition. Thornton squinted through the shadows, making out the Baltimore Orioles jacket the pilot wore. "Are you okay?"

  "Shot up some," the pilot said as he struggled to get around the plane, "but still hanging in there. Couple bullets went through my legs. Had worse in Nam. I'd've helped you put those two away, Spider, but I didn't have no piece. Wasn't expectin' any trouble since this was your score. Until tonight you've always had the velvet touch on stuff we put together."

  Thornton released the hammer on the Smith and stepped toward the Cessna, feeling Skeeter's submerged form brush against his leg for a second before the body drifted away. "Can you fly?"

 
A pained grin split the pilot's pallid face. "Do I got a choice, hot shot?"

  "No," Thornton replied honestly. "Anyone could have heard what happened tonight. Or seen something."

  "All the more reason to get our asses up in the air."

  Thornton nodded and clambered aboard the Cessna after the wounded pilot. He pulled the door closed behind him, looking out over the swamp and the dead memories as the engines shuddered to life.

  He pressed a hand against the window, seeking out something but not knowing what. Feeling nothing but the void.

  The Death's Enforcers hadn't been much, an errant thought told him, but he had the impression they'd been all he had left.

  The Cessna slowly turned on the surface of the swamp. "Where to?" the pilot asked.

  "Toronto."

  Wings's face turned sour as he checked the instruments. "Corsini'll know somethin' went wrong down here, Spider. You can bet'cher ass on that."

  Thornton nodded. "Got nowhere else to go. We've got a plane full of hot product and no place else to off-load it easily. We know there are people in Toronto looking for a quick deal. We can try to link up with them."

  "Corsini's not gonna let that slide, ace. He set up this deal."

  "Then turned around and fucked it up," Thornton added. The swamp faded into black film devoid of details as the plane skipped forward, pulled by the twin engines. "And one way or another, I'm going to get Vinnie Corsini off my ass once and forever."

  "Vinnie's gonna be lookin' for you if you try that, Spider."

  "I know."

  "You're gonna be icing on the cake for ol' Vinnie if what Skeeter said was true. You slip up, and he'll get you and the coke."

  "If I slip." Thornton looked at the pilot as the plane shrugged free of gravity and banked tight. "And anyway, I'm poison. Ask any of those boys down there. I linked the Enforcers to the Corsini Family through Vinnie, helped set up this deal, then led them here to die."

  "It was a sweet deal, Spider. Ain't nobody gonna blame you for tryin'. Coulda made a lot of people a lot of money if people hadn't got so greedy."

  "Yeah, well, I'm going to make sure Vinnie chokes on this deal, too," Thornton promised, focusing on the rage locked inside him.

  8

  Mobile news units jammed the street, vying for parking space with police cruisers and regular traffic in front of the police station.

  Mack Bolan drifted through the pedestrian flow, clad in a brown bomber jacket, jeans, cowboy boots and a Western shirt of muted earth tones. The cowboy hat he wore served to soften his features with shadows. Not typical wear for a balmy Miami night, but the ensemble attracted enough attention to satisfy onlookers that they easily had him pegged as a tourist type. The silenced Beretta rode in shoulder leather, and a Ka-bar was sheathed inside one of the boots.

  He gazed at the entrance to the precinct, noting the staggered groups of people going and coming. According to the police scanner he had been listening to in his rental car, he was sure the DEA people were still at the precinct.

  He wished he could have brought a cup of coffee along but knew that if he had, the policemen he would be seeing in the building would demand his press pass, too. The reporters stayed up late and got up early, working to fit the pieces together on their latest story. He didn't have press ID, but he did have a simple black briefcase, containing photocopies of the information he'd received from Hunsaker, which would buy him at least temporary credibility. The originals were in a Greyhound bus locker not far from the marina. If he failed to interest Silverman in the deal he'd worked up, he intended to drop the copies anyway and let Brognola send a Justice agent to pick up the originals to make sure the information was acted on.

  A female reporter slammed a hand against the metal rail separating the up and down side of the steps as she brushed by Bolan. "Goddamn tinhorn desk sergeant," she swore. "He's not gonna get away with this shit as easily as he thinks, Byron."

  Bolan paused, letting the skinny cameraman follow her.

  The cameraman mouthed a silent thank-you to Bolan as he passed. His glasses had slid to the end of his nose, and his shoulder looked as though the Camcorder was rapidly becoming too heavy for him. "Take it easy, Carrie," the cameraman said in a soothing voice.

  "Screw taking it easy, Byron. The press has a right to know what's going on. Fuckin' First Amendment we're talkin' about here. We got dead bodies scattered all over that marina, and Dick Tracy up there has got his thumb up his ass."

  "He said the detective in charge would be issuing a statement to the press within the hour."

  Bolan watched the reporter whirl suddenly and place a pointed finger against the cameraman's thin chest. Her face was taut with anger.

  "Goddamn it, Byron! I make the press releases for our station, you got that? Me! Not some cretin with a swivel chair pinned to his ass. Now get that camera set up so we can roll. When these guys get around to releasing anything pertinent, this will all be old news. I want to get some footage in front of this precinct, then we'll go see if we can scare up one of those dead bodies. If we can't, I want a sheet with ketchup stains and somebody who wants to earn a quick twenty dollars. You got that?"

  By the time Bolan reached the glass doors leading inside the police station, the reporter had dropped her hostility and was projecting sincerity and sugary sweetness. Her voice had brightened considerably as she launched into a tirade against local drug czars and highlighted the heroic efforts of police detectives to clean up the Miami Beach area.

  The air inside the station house felt cool and crisp, heavy with expectation.

  Bolan moved into the press of bodies in the lounge area off to one side of the desk sergeant. He waited till a stringer for a local radio station filed his story, including statements read from a small spiral-bound notebook complete with quote-unquotes, then took the phone because it allowed visual access to the main hallway.

  Voices of the men and women grumbling about the lack of sleep and the lack of police cooperation on the story provided a background that seemed as if it had been culled from another world. He tapped in Brognola's home number, then gave the operator a credit card calling number that traced back to the Justice Department under a safe alias.

  "Yeah?" Brognola sounded more awake this time.

  "Hello, Hal," Bolan responded as he stood to one side of the pay phone so he could scan everyone coming and going through the foyer. "Have you had any luck at that end?"

  "Some. But it's still too early to turn up more than the bare bones on the stuff you wanted. My advice is to get your ass out of the area until Aaron and I can get you armed with more Intel and some kind of cover."

  Bolan grinned to himself as he looked out over the assembled cops and reporters. "I'll take it into consideration, guy, but for right now I've got to go with my instincts, and they say whatever is going to break on this thing will break before morning."

  A group of reporters and cameramen who'd been conversing in the corner suddenly broke out in gales of laughter.

  "Where are you, Striker?"

  "At a pay phone in a police station, about thirty feet from the sergeant on duty, where the DEA team has camped to oversee their operation."

  Brognola was silent for a moment, then Bolan heard him crunching on antacid tablets. "I hope you know what you're doing, Striker, because I've heard that area is already heated up. And there's an APB out on a big guy dressed all in black who raided a biker bar, put in an appearance at a marina where he shot a drug smuggler who was the focus of a local vice raid and stole an unmarked vehicle from the crime scene."

  "Like I said, Hal, it's been a busy night. This thing is breaking pretty fast. The problem is, I haven't quite put my finger on what it is that's going down."

  "I'm not going to be able to demystify you all at once, but I may be able to shed some light on your present situation."

  Bolan shifted, making his face take on a bored expression for the benefit of the handful of people who glanced at him curiously. He cast a few wist
ful glances at his watch as though he had better things to do than listen to the person on the other end of the connection. Most news people were good observers with a memory for details, and he wanted to make them remember an impression he created specifically for them. A big guy who was obviously in a hurry to get out of the scene. Not someone who was taking an interest in anything going on around him.

  "Frank Judson is the supervisor over the operation the DEA is working at your end of things. I couldn't get any poop on exactly what or who the subject is, but my contact at the FBI told me Judson's been involved in this case over six or eight months. And it was important enough to take precedence over what is happening down there."

  "What is his usual beat, Hal? The Death's Enforcers bikers are from Toronto, and his partner seemed inordinately interested in them rather than the product connections at this end."

  "New York and points north. I got a glimmer of an impression that the ultimate prize Judson and his group are going for is home-based in Toronto."

  "Meaning the Corsini Family?"

  "Meaning maybe. Like I said, whatever file Judson is currently working on is something out of reach for my guy at the Bureau. But it seems to add up that way, doesn't it?"

  "Yeah." Bolan watched the desk sergeant take a call and scribble on a pad. Several of the reporters in the lounge area stopped their conversations for a moment as interest perked up. "What kind of guy is he?"

  "From what I've been able to kick over so far, Judson has a good name in the DEA. A real hard-line kind of agent who doesn't mind putting in the hours and expects his crew to do the same. He goes by the book as long as it suits him, but doesn't mind bending the rules as long as it doesn't interfere with his conviction rate. He's got a rep for putting together airtight cases from his younger years with the DEA."

  "And now?"

  "Now things are getting tougher for him. Everybody's going semilegit these days, Striker. It's getting harder to separate criminal dealings from honest business. The guys laundering money are taking more time and more care with their handiwork. Hell, play your cards right, and you can finance a damn good business for yourself then leave the scut work to guys still hungry for a dollar. You've seen this game in action before."