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  “Well, you got guts, that’s for damn sure. My name’s Holden. I head security.” He lifted the Atchisson to rest it on a shoulder. “So, what’s the deal, Gian...nova?”

  “Giancova. Anthony Giancova.”

  “Okay, Mr. Giancova, what’s the deal? If we leave, we get to stay alive?”

  “Screw that,” Bolan said, resting a boot on the dented grille of the transport. “I want everybody to stay and keep doing the exact same job.”

  This announcement was clearly unexpected and generated a buzz of excitement.

  “What’s the catch?” Holden demanded suspiciously.

  “Columbus is a free city. No cartel or Mob owns it,” Bolan said. “Others will try to take over the business. Work with my people to keep it going and I double everybody’s salary.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Plus, anybody who got iced, their family gets their full salary for as long as I’m alive and in charge.”

  More hushed whispers greeted that.

  “Sounds good,” said a bald security man. The sleeve of his left arm was soaked with blood, the hand tucked into his gun belt to keep it still. “But how do we know you’re not going to kill us later?”

  “I can kill you now,” Bolan stated honestly. “But that’s bad business. This is a sweet deal, and I’m willing to spread the wealth around to those smart enough who know that the only way they stay alive is to watch my six.”

  As the security people began to murmur among themselves, Bolan knew they were on the cusp. Time to sweeten the deal. “By the way, whatever Ziggy got you for body armor is crap.”

  “Armor?” Someone laughed. “We got some bulletproof vests and some ballistic shirts we bought online with our own money....”

  “We have body armor,” Weinberg said, walking up behind Bolan. “Military grade, the good stuff.”

  “That part of the deal?” Holden asked hesitantly.

  “Absolutely,” Bolan said, then added in a sober voice, “But if you work for me, there are a couple of conditions. None of them negotiable!” He paused to let that sink in. “First, anybody betrays me, and I kill them. Rat me out to the DEA and I go after their family. Wives, kids, cousins, they all die. Are we clear on that?”

  A general murmur from the guards showed grudging acceptance.

  “Good. Second, nobody uses product.”

  “Then you don’t...” The man touched his nose.

  “I prefer Scotch,” Bolan said truthfully.

  Slowly, all of the guards started to smile.

  “That does it for me,” Holden said, clicking the safety on the Atchisson. “Where do we sign...sir?”

  Chapter 10

  It took Bolan and his team several days to repair the damage to the warehouse and properly fortify the factory. During that time, the production of crystal meth continued unabated.

  Judiciously, Bolan stayed out of sight when the local police came around for their weekly payments. Cosentini handled that. But Bolan always greeted the couriers of old customers personally, to help spread the word that Ziggy was gone and Anthony “Mad Dog” Giancova was now in charge.

  The next week, Weinberg and Gonzales went on a recruitment drive to fill out the depleted ranks of the factory guards, while Glenn tracked down all of the assorted assets of Lynn Fairweather and transferred them to new banks.

  Bolan was surprised at the sheer size of the hidden funds, and guessed that Ziggy had several million stashed away somewhere in secret accounts not listed in the computer files. It was annoying, but the drug lord was upholding his side of the deal, so Bolan had to let the matter slide. As long as Ziggy stayed retired when cut loose by the Farm, that was good enough. For the moment anyway.

  Slowly, another week passed, and when nobody from Castle attempted to contact the new owner of the drug lab, Bolan decide to attract attention to himself in the only safe way possible: expansion.

  Assembling a crew, Bolan had Grimaldi fly them all to Atlanta, Georgia. That was the home base for Ziggy’s biggest rival in the drug trade, Joe Brown, the so-called king of Southern crystal. An enormously fat man, Brown was also known as “Gator,” because he disposed of the bodies of his enemies by tossing them into the swamp for the alligators to eat. The victims were not always dead during the process and occasionally given stimulants to keep them horribly awake as they were eaten alive.

  Landing at a private airfield, Bolan and his team drove a caravan of three limousines far out into the countryside to finally turn off the main highway. A private road meandered through gentle rolling hills to finally end at a massive estate that encircled a private lake.

  The rolling hectares of manicured lawn and peach trees were entirely surrounded by a formidable wall that stood an easy eight feet tall and was topped with a wrought-iron fence that rose another six feet. That was the absolute legal maximum of height for a fence in the state. Publicly, Brown liked to maintain the appearance of a reclusive millionaire who stretched, but never quite broke, the law. Privately was a different matter entirely.

  As his limousine approached the entrance, Bolan saw that the front gate was bracketed by a pair of guard kiosks, each with several armed men inside. The gate itself was a massive barrier of thick steel bars polished to a mirror sheen and thick enough to simply be another section of the fence.

  “Pity we didn’t bring the Grizzly,” Gonzales said, squinting out the tinted window.

  “Not sure it could have smashed through that,” Bolan said honestly. “Glenn, are you in his systems yet?”

  “Working on it,” Glenn muttered, typing steadily on the laptop. The screen scrolled with arcane symbols and binary codes.

  “Well, work faster,” Weinberg said, shoving a 40 mm shell into the grenade launcher of the AK-101 assault rifle.

  “Security cameras everywhere,” Grimaldi said, braking the limousine to an easy stop.

  “Good,” Bolan replied, throwing open the door and stepping out.

  Taking his time, Bolan sauntered to the nearer kiosk. The armed men inside gazed at him through the bulletproof glass as if inspecting a new species of insect.

  “Morning,” Bolan said, giving a friendly smile. “Tell Gator that I want to see him.”

  Both guards seemed startled at the unbelievable act of using their boss’s hated nickname on his own property.

  “Sir, this gate is under surveillance,” the younger guard whispered tersely, a hand resting on the Glock holstered at his hip.

  “Well, that should get the fat son of a bitch out of bed.” Bolan chuckled and threw a friendly wave to the mirrored dome attached at the roof.

  “Yeah, and who the hell are you, dead man?” a deep voice growled from a wall speaker.

  “Anthony Giancova,” Bolan said, shooting his cuffs. Diamonds flashed from the gold cuff links and the platinum Rolex Presidential watch on his wrist was the size of a computer mouse. “I’m the new owner of Belvedere Fertilizer.”

  There was a short pause.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what happened to Ziggy?”

  “I ate him,” Bolan said in a bored voice and started picking his teeth with a thumbnail.

  A low chuckled sounded. “Well, you’ve got balls, I’ll say that much for you,” the voice said. “Guards, let Mr. Big Balls and his people inside.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Brown,” the older guard replied crisply, shooting a disapproving look at his partner.

  There was the low thumping of hydraulic pumps building pressure, and then underground locks disengaged with loud clangs and the thick gate silently swung open.

  Motioning to the others to follow, Bolan started walking up the long curving driveway leading to a sprawling mansion. This was both a sign of contempt, that he was not worried about anything, and an excellent way t
o perform a low-level reconnaissance.

  Late the previous night, Grimaldi had flown over the private estate of the drug lord, taking as many pictures as possible using high-resolution cameras set on both the infrared and ultraviolet spectrum. Bolan knew where most of the machine guns and video cameras were hidden, as well as the supposedly secret escape tunnel from the main house to the boathouse on the lake.

  Something large and metallic was parked inside the building. Bolan’s best guess was that it was an escape vehicle, perhaps a hovercraft, something that could move over water and land. But the boathouse could just as easily be a fallback position for Brown and contained an APC, or even an Apache gunship. Unless Glenn could hack into the security system of the estate, there simply was no way for Bolan to know for sure.

  Marking the location of the structure out of the corner of his eye, Bolan saw a busty woman with long flowing red hair waving an arm. She was dressed in a microbikini that left nothing to the imagination.

  Motioning for Grimaldi and the other limousine drivers to stay where they were, Bolan headed in that direction. Funny that Gator would have a woman greet strangers....

  Just down the sloping hill, a beautiful garden spread out in front of Bolan, hedges and flower beds laid out in an orderly display around an Olympic-size swimming pool. Country music was playing from speakers inside the flowering bushes, and the wooden patio edging the pool was lined with lounge chairs. Many of them contained grim-faced men in swimming trunks, their muscular bodies covered with overlapping scars. Beautiful young women stood near each man, most of them wearing only sunglasses, scraps of cloth that barely passed as swimsuits and flip-flop sandals.

  Off by himself, Joe Brown lay facedown on a massage table, a pair of tiny Asian women using their hands to spread suntan lotion along his fat, hairless legs.

  The woman with flowing red hair sat nearby, her hands demurely folded in her lap. Her skin was deeply tanned, the white bikini making her appear even darker in color.

  “Big Balls,” Brown said in greeting without looking up.

  “Gator,” Bolan replied, sliding on a pair of sunglasses. “Did I interrupt a business meeting?”

  “You couldn’t interrupt me taking a dump,” Brown snorted, swinging out his legs to sit upright.

  The man’s entire body was soft, the tanned flesh dimpled and covered with a network of stretch marks. But there were also dozens of puckered circles, scars from where the fat man had been shot in nonvital areas, along with a few hard ridges of healed knife wounds.

  Quickly, the Asian girls rushed away to bring back a terry-cloth bathrobe for the man. “Okay, Balls, now who the hell are you really?”

  “As I said before, Anthony Giancova,” Bolan said, taking out a gold cigarette case.

  “I’ve heard of that name up north somewhere...” Brown muttered as the girls helped him into the robe. He stood and tied it shut. “New York, maybe...or Boston.”

  “Pittsfield, but Boston is close enough,” Bolan said, lighting a slim cigar.

  “Thought you handled weapons or something like that.” Brown said it as a question.

  “Everybody sells guns these days,” Bolan stated, blowing a smoke ring. “Now I deal in recreational pharmaceuticals.”

  At that, Brown snorted a laugh. “You’re a funny guy, Balls.”

  “Thanks, Gator, your approval is what I live for,” Bolan said.

  Brown snapped his fingers.

  Instantly the woman with red hair stood to bring over a chair for Bolan.

  “Thanks, doll,” he said, patting her affectionately on her mostly exposed buttocks.

  She blushed and hurried back to her own chair.

  “Damn, you are Mister Ice,” Brown growled, cracking his knuckles. “Which means either you really are this tough or you’re the dumbest son of a bitch on the planet.”

  “I’m not worried about those snipers in the trees to the north and east,” Bolan said, gesturing with the cigar.

  “You spotted them, huh?”

  “Along with the guy in your house,” Bolan said, making a vague motion over his shoulder.

  That was a calculated gamble. The windows of the mansions were tinted darkly, impossible to see through from the outside. But unless he was reading the man wrong, Brown never told anybody the entire truth about anything. There were wheels within wheels here....

  His face tightening, Brown straightened. “Now, how in the hell... You’re guessing.”

  “Am I?” Bolan asked, inhaling deeply then exhaling through his nose.

  Slowly, Brown crossed his gargantuan arms and frowned. “No, you’re not making a guess,” he said at last.

  “Yeah, I was,” Bolan countered. He took a long drag, then dropped the unfinished cigar to the wooden deck and crushed it under his shoe. “I’m trying to quit.”

  “Yeah, who isn’t?” Brown laughed, scratching at the nicotine patch on his arm. “Want a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Brown didn’t make a move. The redheaded woman jumped up to get a couple of frosty cans of beer from a small refrigerator near a barbecue pit. Popping the tops, she gave one to each man.

  “Love the scenery,” Bolan said, watching the woman leave, her full breasts swaying in time to the roll of her hips. “But can we talk here?”

  “No place safer,” Brown stated, taking a long draft. Finished, he crushed the can in his hand and tossed it away. It landed near a wicker wastebasket and one of the Asian women bent to deposit it properly. “Okay, you’re in charge of Ziggy’s...factory,” Brown said, stressing the last word.

  “Let’s just call it a meth lab and cut the bullshit,” Bolan said, taking another small drink.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Okay, I’ve got some of the finest crystal in nineteen states, and I’m expanding production with three more labs.”

  “Three!”

  “At first,” Bolan said, reclining in the lounge chair. The sun was warm on his face and he deliberately shrugged to let his jacket spread open wide and show his double shoulder holsters.

  Brown started to react to the sight, then caught himself and chuckled. “Clang, clang.” He laughed. “You testing me, Big Balls? That hasn’t happened in a long time. I got a good rep.”

  “No, you got a monster rep,” Bolan stated. “Which is why I want us to be business partners.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who else? According to my guy, you distribute crystal across twenty states and handle over a hundred pounds a week.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Can you handle more?”

  “Hell, yes, it’s a seller’s market. Crack is wack, meth is king these days.”

  “Two hundred pounds too much for you?”

  “A week?”

  “Yes.”

  Brown lowered his head like a bull about to charge. “Maybe,” he whispered. “Okay, yeah, sure. I could handle three hundred if I could get it. Clear blue crystals, mind you, no misty crap cut with laundry detergent or God knows what else.”

  “Only the best. Three hundred pounds it is. Is Friday okay?”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  Bolan smiled. “Joe, how can you say that? After all we’ve been through over the years?”

  Lifting his head, Brown snorted. “Yeah, we’re gonna get along just fine, Anthony.” He leaned closer. “But really...no shit...three hundred pounds?”

  “Each week. My personal guarantee, Joe.”

  “No money up front?”

  “Nope. But cash on delivery.”

  “Well, then...” Holding out his hand, Brown waited as the redhead got him another beer. “Three hundred from you means I don’t have to buy ten pounds here and five pounds there from all of the little labs,” he said, pulling the top and rolling the fros
ty can along his pudgy arms. “They won’t like that.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “And if, say, Alabama Sue objects...perhaps strenuously?”

  Bolan said nothing.

  “Fair enough,” Brown said with a wide grin. “Always would rather do business with a man than a greedy bitch. She’s been a pain in my ass for years.”

  “Then consider me your personal proctologist.”

  “I will!” Brown laughed, sliding off the table. He landed with a pronounced thud, the deck vibrating for yards. “All right, call in your people and let’s celebrate. I’ll go fire up the grill and cook us some T-bones the size of Dobermans!” Brown slapped one of the Asian girls on the backside and she squealed in delight.

  “Sounds good, but I’ll have to pass this time,” Bolan said, standing. “I want to get back and kick my crew into high gear. Lots of crystal to cook.”

  “Business before pleasure, eh?”

  “Are you testing me, Joe?”

  “Bet your ass, I am,” Brown said, his smile vanishing quickly. “Only fools party before the cash has been counted.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Also, Tony...you should know that I am not a tolerant man, and I always keep my word. You promised three hundred pounds. You’d better deliver three or my boys will come visiting.”

  “Are they as tough as these lovelies?” Bolan asked, jerking a thumb at the nearby woman.

  “Much tougher,” the redhead said with a giggle, fluffing her hair.

  “Was anybody talking to you?” Brown growled.

  The woman paled. “No, sir!” she said quickly. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything, Gator.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “Mr. Brown!” she declared desperately. “Brown. I said Brown!”

  Walking over to the nearby lounge chair, Brown pulled the leather belt from a giant pair of pants and wrapped half of it around his fist. The buckle dangled freely, the sharpened edge glinting harshly in the bright sunlight.

  “Come here, Audrey,” he ordered.