Poison Justice Read online

  “So were we. And we already know where it is.”

  When they fell silent, Cabriano quietly asked, “You gonna tell me, or is it some big government secret?”

  “It’s in Miami. Marelli’s girlfriend, Tina, the stripper? Ever hear of her?”

  “Vaguely.”

  Spaceman chuckled. “That’s the problem here, Petey. You haven’t been watching the store so well. Something this important, the whole deal with my people worked with you through Marelli and Big Tony, could expose critical national security matters. And we end up doing all the grunt work for you.”

  “I’ve got soldiers in Miami. I do a lot of business down there.”

  “You’re out of that part of it. And your so-called soldiers get in our way, well at the rate it’s been going for you, pretty soon you’ll be hiring punks off street corners.”

  “I don’t get this, none of it.”

  “Yours is not to understand why.”

  Cabriano wanted to fly into a rage, but good business sense took over. “All this big cooperation I’m giving you, you bulling your way into my end of it…”

  “Ah, yes, money.” Spaceman chuckled.

  Cabriano took smoke in the face. “Well?”

  “You really think, with the cargo—which, by the way, will already be there, and which, by the way, my people technically own—someone is just going to hand you a bunch of money and say have a nice day?”

  Cabriano grimaced when another cloud hit him in the eyes. “This ain’t right. My end was ten million on delivery. Ten more for the next shipment.”

  “Let me tell you something. I could hand you a C-note right now, and tell you to take a hike.”

  “Meaning you don’t think you need me. You got all the good stuff, old Peter can kiss your collective asses. You’re in tight with the Quinteros.”

  “Up to a point, we need you. Maybe we’re looking to take down the Quinteros, put our people in to rule the cartel. Maybe hand you the keys to their kingdom when the smoke clears.”

  “You’re nuts. You’re government agents of some type. Not drug dealers.”

  Spaceman chuckled. “What you don’t know about how the real world works is a lot. The war on terrorism has grabbed center stage, the war on drugs has taken a back seat. We control the flow of narcotics, we can control the terrorists.”

  Cabriano couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Listen to yourself. This isn’t and never was about you, Petey. To answer your question, though, it’s because I don’t like you. You’re criminal scum. All you want is to keep on living like a big shot. Play ball, you’ll come out of this okay.”

  “I guess I don’t need to ask what happens if I don’t. I sleep with the fishes.”

  Spaceman laughed. “You’re smarter than I thought, Petey. You answered your own question.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll go the distance on this.” Cabriano felt his hand shaking. For the first time he could recall he was on his own, his life in the hands of others—men he didn’t even know—and he was scared to death.

  “You want that smoke now, Petey?”

  He thought about it, almost shook his head, but Spaceman had one out.

  “Go on. Now that we have an understanding.”

  Cabriano held his hand out, ashamed of the shaking. He took the smoke, waiting for another hammer to the jaw but it never came.

  “Hey, like I told you a while back. Nothing to be afraid of, now that we’re in business together. Cheer up.”

  FBI SAC JEFF TIMMER didn’t have the first clue as to what the hell he was looking at, much less armed with a ready answer to hand to the director. Oh, he’d heard stories from other agents who fought in wars overseas, the gory details of combat sometimes leaking out in conversation after a few rounds of drinks, leaving him to wonder how much of the talk came out of the bottle. Ten years on the job, one of the youngest SACs in the Bureau, and he’d never fired the first shot in anger, and now…

  The carnage he’d found, from the Justice safehouse to a stretch of highway a few miles south—not counting the corpses that littered the woods—left him speechless.

  He knew he had the cell phone pressed to his ear, the director on the other end wanting a full report, but he was numb, dead.

  This was a scene he expected to find more in Baghdad or the Gaza Strip than on American soil.

  It was his show now, either way. The full weight of the state police and the FBI were behind him. The skies were swarming with helicopters, the highway cordoned off by troopers, meat wagons on the crime scene, body bags rolling out. But, from the look of the damage to the dead—what with arms, legs, feet chewed off and scattered around four vehicles riddled with so many bullet holes, one of the rigs mangled to scrap by what appeared to him a rocket-propelled grenade—there was no way to figure out what parts belonged to which body.

  No ID on any of the victims. No eyewitnesses. Two more bodies strewed near a Towncar in the woods shot to hell and dumped in a gully.

  To say the investigation was a mystery—a nightmare—gave him pause to consider a career change.

  “Timmer! I’m talking to you.”

  “Sir, I’m here,” he answered, wandering up and down the line of vehicular trash, veering away from an amputated leg.

  “Any sign of Cooper?”

  “No, sir, but AD Rollins gave us a description, confirmed by Justice agents assigned to the man’s detail in Brooklyn. We have an APB, BOLOS, roadblocks from here to—”

  “Forget Cooper.”

  “Sir?”

  “You got shit in your ears, son? Cooper is not behind this fiasco—at least not what started this mess.”

  “But, sir, AD Rollins said—”

  “Forget Rollins.”

  “Sir?”

  “Stop sirring me, son, you’re starting to really piss me off.”

  “Yes.”

  “Rollins is dead. He went AWOL this morning, just before Brognola fingered him as the one who walked him into an ambush.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time to explain. Rollins was shot in his home. Open safe, passport by his body, assailant unknown, but I’ve got a house full of those at the moment. He was getting ready, or trying, to leave behind this horror show he helped to engineer. I suspect Peary was his inside man. And this all tracks back to Cabriano somehow.”

  “Speaking of the Mob, Marelli’s vanished.” Feeling he had an opening to take charge and shine, Timmer laid out all the aerial and ground sweeps underway, roadblocks. He thought he was on a roll, ready to barge ahead when the director interrupted him.

  “That’s nice.”

  Timmer, considering the slaughter he had to figure out, couldn’t believe how calm—or perhaps sarcastic—the director sounded. He choked back the “sir” in question form.

  “Keep at it, Timmer. I’m sending more people to assist with the investigation. Forensic teams, more manpower and so forth. Right now, if you run into Cooper, you treat him like you would your own beloved father. I’m in the process of calling off the wolves on him.”

  “With all due respect, Director, there’s evidence pointing to Cooper as being the one-man army that nearly burned down half of Brooklyn last night.”

  “Right. You check with NYPD?”

  “Well…I…”

  “If you do, you’ll find the only property damage, the only bodies that may or may not belong to Cooper had Cabriano all over them.”

  “Are you telling me, Director, the Justice Department is in the business of declaring war on organized crime? Carte blanche? License to kill?”

  “Far as that goes, I don’t know what to tell you. Do the best you can up there, but my orders to you are to fairly kiss Cooper’s ass if you run into him. We clear on that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any more questions?”

  “No, Director.”

  “Then get back to work.”

  When the line
went dead, Timmer felt as if the air had been punched from his lungs. He shook his head, stared at the carnage.

  “What the hell is going on here? Who the hell is Cooper?” he asked the dead.

  WHEN THE GOOD NEWS KEPT rolling in, Bolan felt his hackles rise. In his world there was always bad news waiting just around the next bend, usually armed, usually angry and looking for his scalp. Even still it was relief, if only for the moment, to know hope was alive and well, at least in the person of Hal Brognola.

  The warrior’s second call to Barbara Price, patched through by a series of cutouts, was placed when they had put the Manhattan skyline an hour or so behind them. They were rolling south in the borrowed Winnebago belonging to Mr. And Mrs. Degan. Bolan watched the highway unfold, perched close to the elderly couple, with Marelli on his flank. He was grateful the Degans weren’t the nervous kind, both of them pledging full cooperation, Bolan sensing they were grateful for a little adventure or believing they were helping their country, or both. They had declined financial compensation, but Bolan decided he’d take their address, just the same, make sure they received an early Christmas cash gift.

  As previously instructed by the Farm’s mission controller, they were headed in the direction of Baltimore. Price was arranging a classified military flight from an airfield sometimes used by Stony Man. A blacksuit crew of three would be on hand to assist Bolan.

  “I know you called in some heavy markers on this one,” he told Price.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Tell me all about it when it’s over.”

  “Count on it. I got the heat off you, and next to Hal being on the mend, that’s the best news. No APBs. You’re off the hook with every law-enforcement agency across the country. Still, since we don’t know who or what the late Rollins was in bed with, to be on the safe side finish the mission as Colonel Brandon Stone. That cover will clear you with the DEA in Miami and Cali. I’m juggling a couple more markers to get you contacts in Cali, specifically DEA who can get you cleared with Colombian authorities.”

  “Let me take care of the next stop first. The way this campaign has shaped up…” Bolan paused.

  “Understood. What are your plans for Marelli?”

  Bolan glanced at the hit man, who looked a little sulky about something. “I’ll take my witness with me to the next stop, then when I have in hand what everyone’s been after, I’ll turn him over to our people.”

  He heard Marelli curse, adding something about him being a Judas bastard, then Bolan growled at the hit man, “Watch your filthy mouth.”

  “I take it after all the excitement in the Catskills The Butcher is having second thoughts about being in the WPP?” Price asked.

  “Nervous and worried, but it’s under control.”

  “I guess you offered him the same sweetheart deal that’s been on the table for steering you in the right direction of the disk?”

  “Against my better judgment.”

  “You’d just as soon shoot him as spend another wonderful moment with him?”

  “You know me all too well.”

  Price chuckled on the other end. “Okay, you’re good to land on the other end at Opa-Locka Airfield. There will be ground transportation waiting.”

  “One other thing,” Bolan said. “Any chance of getting our own people to watch our man? Laid up like he is, with agents we don’t know, I’d hate to see anything happen to him after what he’s been through.”

  “I get the picture. I can work on it, make some calls, but no promises.”

  “If you get too much resistance on that front, find out who’s throwing up the wall.”

  “Will do, but my clout at the department has limits. If that falls through, I can slip in one of our own people, a concerned long-lost cousin to keep an eye on Hal.”

  “That’ll work, if all else fails,” Bolan said.

  “All intelligence you’ll need on the Quintero Cartel and their Mideast friends will be waiting for you with our people. Fact is, we should have gone after them a long time ago. Beyond narcotics they’ve cornered the market, it appears, on getting at least dirty bombs into the hands of fanatics.”

  “We’re here now. And the way it’s shaking out, I can drop more buzzards than the cartel.” Bolan listened to the pause on the other end, aware of the anxious hours that lay ahead for Price, the Stony Man team and Brognola’s family.

  “Striker, the hell of this is, we may never know who paid off whom, how far or wide this conspiracy reaches. It galls me to think a few snakes may slither off to strike another day.”

  “Unfortunately, it happens. We both know that. That’s why I take it one snake at a time. If they slip away today, they’ll crawl out from under another rock tomorrow.”

  There was another moment of silence, then Price said, “Touch back with me when you’re in the air, in case of any more breaking news.”

  “Will do. If there’s a chance, get word to our friend he’s in my thoughts.”

  “I can pass that along.”

  Bolan punched off and offered a quick silent prayer for the full recovery of the big Fed. Marelli interrupted his thoughts.

  “What’s the deal, pal?”

  Bolan turned to look at the hit man. “What?”

  “The deal, I still got my deal? All that cloak-and-dagger yak-yak didn’t exactly fill my heart with hope. Yes or no, I still got my deal?”

  Bolan drilled a cold stare into the hit man. There it was, he thought, but why should he expect anything different? Tough guy, decades of dipping his hands in blood. Who knew how much innocent blood he’d shed, families he’d ruined? His marker was way overdue, and all he could think of was saving himself, getting his way, the angry child. He turned away, rose.

  “You’re gonna fuckin’ Judas me, ain’t ya, you rotten son of a—”

  Bolan wheeled and hammered a backhand fist into Marelli’s mouth. “One more word before we step off this rig, and your deal dies. Don’t speak, just nod, if you understand.”

  Marelli ignored the blood dripping off his chin, and nodded.

  Bolan went to the Degans and felt the tension from the elderly couple. He handed Mrs. Degan the cell phone and told her, “Sorry about that. He won’t be any more trouble.”

  “No problem,” Mrs. Degan said.

  Bolan saw a strange twinkle light up the old man’s eyes as he said, “You’re fine with us. Looks like you can handle just about anything.”

  “What he’s saying,” Mrs. Degan added, smiling, “is we trust you. We know good people when we see them. You won’t let any harm come to us. Now that one back there,” she added in a near whisper, “he’s bad. Whatever he’s done, something tells me he’s getting off too easy.”

  Bolan nodded. “Ma’am, believe me when I tell you, no truer words could you have ever spoken.”

  11

  Tony Bartino hated Miami. Forget the heat and humidity, the fact he had to change shirts four times a day. Forget the traffic, car or mammal, hell he was from New York City, after all. The foreigners, why that was just part of any city zooscape, and they were just a good reason anyway to keep his .45 on his person at all times, in case he had to go Charlie Bronson on the spot. Truth be told he had, three times, but that’s why they had the Glades and gators a short drive west, he figured. Why, too, he kept a few cops on his payroll.

  No. What really bugged him was the crime down here. Turn on the tube, and every day there was a rash of senseless murders, rapes and robberies that would make the toughest New Yorker wince. Sure, tourists grabbed the headlines, carjackings and such, but he knew of giant corporations that had pulled up stakes down here because of all the animals. Of course, he knew Miami was still high on coke, thanks to both the Cabriano Family and the Quintero Cartel. Almost without exception he also knew all this brutality was fueled by the very product he dumped on the streets. In his mind, though, if they couldn’t afford it or didn’t know when to say when, don’t do it in the first damn place.

  End of
discussion.

  So, why did he stay? Easy. The broads, the strip joints, not to mention he was something of a big shot in South Beach, often filmed by paparazzi being ogled by movie and rock stars, damn near fawned over in some cases, script writers begging to do his life story, wanting to put GoodFellas to shame.

  Then there was the money and personal ambition to consider. Being the Don’s frontline capo down here, who helped all the moving and shaking between the Quinteros, their bankers, offshore and otherwise—well, there was the future to think about.

  That’s why this Marelli nonsense as of late had him clamoring to be more, to climb higher, to secure the future. Tough guy turned stoolie, after something like a hundred hits under his belt. He never did like the SOB.

  If the guy did sing, they were all screwed. But, if in fact this disk, which allegedly laid out all the Family secrets even beyond the Quinteros, existed…

  There it was.

  Get the disk, take it to Cabriano and hand it to him personally. Might as well knight him before the whole crew of soldiers, from Miami to New York, the Don’s favored son.

  And Bartino knew where to begin looking. Truth was, the more he’d thought about it the past two days, the more sense it made. It was always the girlfriend who knew everything, or had in her possession anything of value a man owned. Wise guy or not, it was a fact as old as Adam and Eve. What bothered him was he hadn’t thought of it before now.

  The gentlemen’s club was called Rocco’s. Named after the owner, Frankie Rocco, who laundered fat chunks of cash through the club. It was tucked near a strip mall in Coral Gables, just south of the airport.

  It was damn thoughtful of Tina, Bartino thought, that she’d run her mouth to a fellow dancer about holding on to something huge for her boyfriend.

  Bingo.

  He could have gone through the kitchen or service door, but in a way this was his joint, and which of these broads could possibly manage to make it through the night without at least laying eyes on him? Leave Garpo to sit in the Towncar in the back parking lot, since they’d be hauling Tina out the service door. He loved his grand entrances.

  He waited while Calebria held the door, Carmine on his left flank. Bartino saw a funny look fall over Calebria’s craggy mug. “What?”