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  “Oh, cut the crap, Gator, I like her!” Bolan said, walking over to the trembling woman and ruffling her hair. “Mind if I take her back to the factory? It’s a long ride and I could use some entertainment.”

  Trembling, Audrey looked up at Bolan with tear-filled eyes, and he looked away, maintaining his character.

  Staring at the woman, Brown did nothing for a long moment, then slowly eased his stance. “Keep her. Never did like the mouthy broad.”

  “Thanks! Grab whatever things are yours, then get in the car,” Bolan snapped, jerking a thumb toward the limousine parked outside. “You have two minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Audrey whispered, grabbing a terry-cloth robe from a table piled high with them.

  Sipping drinks, the other women said nothing as the redhead hurried up the sloping hill toward the house.

  “Nice taste in women,” Bolan said, forcing a chuckle into his voice. “Okay, see you Friday!”

  “Friday, Tony,” Brown repeated. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  “No fear.” Bolan waved goodbye.

  Returning to the limousine, the Executioner found the woman sitting in the rear with a small bag, huddled near the liquor cabinet.

  “When I got in,” Audrey said, “everybody else moved to the other limo and the driver closed the privacy window....”

  “Good,” Bolan said, getting in and closing the door.

  As the limousine pulled away, the woman licked her lips and forced a smile. “You won’t regret this, Mr. Giancova,” she said, brushing back her long hair.

  “No?” Bolan asked.

  “Oh, no... You and I are going to have good time,” Audrey said, shrugging off the robe. Dropping to her hands and knees, she started crawling toward the soldier. “I can make you real happy...Tony...”

  There was no denying the fact that she was a beautiful woman, and Bolan felt himself start to respond to her charms. Undercover or not, he was still a healthy man.

  “Sorry, I’ve got calls to make first,” he lied, waving her back. “Have a drink and relax.”

  “Sure, whatever you want,” Audrey said, continuing closer. “But first...” Touching the front of her bikini top, she pressed some sort of clasp and it came apart, her naked breasts spilling into view.

  The gentle vibrations of the limousine were yielding the most amazing results. Bolan felt his throat tighten and he quickly drew the Beretta tucked in between the sofa partitions.

  “Move again and you die,” he stated, placing the barrel on her throat.

  Startled, Audrey froze in place, one hand on his thigh, the other behind her back.

  “Drop it,” Bolan ordered, pressing the barrel into the soft flesh. “I can’t miss at this range.”

  Defiantly, her green eyes flared with rage, then something dropped to the floorboard carpeting with a dull thud.

  “Have a seat,” Bolan said, clicking back the hammer. “Nice and slow now...no sudden moves.”

  Breathing deeply, Audrey retreated across the limousine and dropped heavily into the other couch, her breasts rising and falling.

  Lying on the carpeting between them was a stiletto, the honed edge shining like new sin.

  “Now what, Tony?” Audrey asked innocently.

  It took some effort on Bolan’s part, but he remained grim and did not let his sight move from her face. Slowly her confident smile faded and she picked up her robe.

  “What are you?” Audrey demanded, narrowing her eyes to slits. “Some kind of eunuch?”

  “Just a businessman,” Bolan replied, the Beretta never wavering. “Now, are we going to talk?”

  “Fine, we’ll talk,” she said, slipping on the robe. “How... When did you know?”

  “That you’re really Gator and not that overgrown lump? Almost immediately.”

  “How?”

  “Every other woman had an obedient air. They were used to taking orders. But not you.”

  Skeptically, Audrey said nothing.

  “Also, Fat Boy overdid the belt routine,” Bolan said with a snort. “None of the women present had any scars from previous beatings, which meant that either this was the first time or—”

  “It was bullshit,” Audrey finished, belting the robe tight. “And if I was Gator, then...”

  “You were here to kill me, and take over my business.”

  “It has worked before.”

  “I’m sure.” Bolan glanced at the stiletto. The blade was as slim as a pencil. “Poisoned?”

  “No need,” Audrey said, opening the liquor cabinet and pouring herself a drink. “One slash across the throat and I’d control another slice of the pie.”

  Bolan said nothing as she took a sip and leaned back, her long legs demurely crossed at the ankles. “So are you going to kill me?”

  “That’s entirely up to you,” Bolan said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. She was a very desirable woman and, assassin or not, he had fully responded as nature intended.

  “Meaning?” she asked, swirling the glass to make the ice tinkle.

  “If you’re waiting for your people to hit the limos, don’t hold your breath,” Bolan said. “We’re still in the driveway. We’ve been driving around in a circle for the past ten minutes. So they’re not sure what to do without your signal.”

  Shocked, Audrey almost dropped the tumbler. Draining it dry, she placed it aside. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees. “Fine, let’s talk, Mister...?”

  “Anthony Giancova,” Bolan said. “Is Audrey a middle name or just something you choose at random?”

  “Josephine Audrey Brown,” she said with a shrug.

  “Joe Brown. Cute.”

  “You’re really not going to kill me, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wise move. My, my, it will be nice to conduct business with somebody who doesn’t think with their dick.” She gave a genuine smile this time. “A real pleasure.”

  “Business first,” Bolan stated, easing down the hammer on the Beretta. “All right, you were there and heard my deal. It still stands. Three hundred pounds a week. Can you handle it or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Market price, no discounts.”

  “Done.”

  A long moment passed with neither of them saying a thing, the sexual tension inside the gently murmuring limousine almost palpable.

  “How about that drink now?” Audrey asked, opening the liquor cabinet once more, the bottles tinkling. “We can toast our partnership.”

  “We’d be fools not to,” Bolan said honestly.

  Chapter 11

  Around midnight, Bolan and the others drove back to the airfield and swiftly departed for Ohio.

  “So how did the negotiations go, Sarge?” Grimaldi asked, both hands on the steering yoke.

  “It took us a few tries,” Bolan said, relaxing in the copilot’s seat. “But we finally got it right.”

  Revving the engines, Grimaldi started accelerating the Hercules along the old pavement. “Been that long, eh?”

  “Just drive the plane, flyboy,” Bolan said drily as they took to the sky.

  A few hours later, Grimaldi landed the Hercules in the fallow field outside Columbus, taxied the huge airplane inside a waiting large prefab hut and killed the engines. Operating the controls, Glenn lowered the rear loading ramp and the three limousines jounced out of the plane. He then joined Weinberg in the last one, and the limousines drove out of the building, their tires kicking up clumps of loose dirt as they sped away.

  Standing in the open doorway, Grimaldi watched them disappear into the night, then pulled the heavy door closed, locked it tight and started refueling the Hercules for the next flight. Long ago, the pilot had learned to always be ready for a fast escape. Nine times out
of ten it wasn’t necessary. But when it was, every second saved meant the difference between life and death.

  * * *

  STOPPING AT AN all-night restaurant on High Street, Bolan and others had a few drinks and a quick meal, then took the elevated beltway across town and returned to the fertilizer factory. Spirits were high, and everybody was in a good mood over the new distribution deal. But the smiles faded and hands went to weapons as the limousines went around the fountain in front of the building.

  Standing near the new revolving door was Holden, head of security, and several of his people. All of them had stern expressions. Hunched over amid the guards was one of the lab technicians, his head bowed, his wrists handcuffed together.

  “What happened?” Bolan asked, stepping out of the limousine.

  The evening breeze was cool and carried the smell of the hedge maze and the flower beds.

  “One of my people caught this idiot hiding some crystals inside a fountain pen,” Holden stated, reaching into a shirt pocket. He tossed it over.

  Making the catch, Bolan unscrewed the cap. The reservoir inside was packed full of glistening blue-white power. Mentally, Bolan calculated the street value at roughly a grand.

  “He planted that on me,” the technician cried. “I wouldn’t steal from you, sir!”

  Knowing that the chemist was a mass murderer through the manufacture of the deadly drug, Bolan felt no remorse or pity when he told Holden to kill him. Holden drew his pistol, thumbed off the safety and fired a single round at point-blank range. The 9 mm round rocked back the head of the startled technician and he dropped to the pavement, gushing blood.

  “Leave the body there until the evening shift change,” Bolan growled, tucking away the pen. “Make sure that everybody gets a good long view of what I do to people who steal from me.”

  “Not a problem, sir,” Holden said, giving a slow smile. “And afterward?”

  “Use the wood chipper in the basement,” Bolan said, turning to walk away. “And shovel feed what comes out into the sewer system.”

  “Will do. You also had a visitor, sir.”

  Suddenly alert, Bolan pivoted. “They have a name?”

  “I asked,” Holden said, hitching up his gun belt. “But this guy only wanted to talk to you.”

  Gonzales snorted. “Probably just some local politician looking for a handout.”

  “Hey, the squeaky wheel gets the grease,” Cosentini pointed out.

  “No, it gets greased,” Glenn corrected, patting his assault rifle.

  “Did he leave a message?” Bolan asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Yes, sir. But it didn’t make any sense,” Holden said with a frown. “He said that he hoped the crazy bitch didn’t cut your throat.”

  “That a quote?” Bolan asked softly, glancing across the shadowy gardens. The breeze gently stirred the ragged bushes and the ivy, making the entire landscape seem alive.

  “Near enough. I thought you went to see Gator Brown?”

  “Long story,” Bolan said. “Where is he?”

  “Local motel,” Holden replied. “Should I call him in the morning?”

  “No, do it now,” Bolan said. “Send him up to my office.”

  “Will do.”

  “Anybody in the cafeteria?”

  “The night staff, getting lunch ready for the lab crew.”

  “Have somebody send coffee to my office.” Bolan paused. “Do we stock any beer?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hale’s Pale Ale?”

  “Never heard of the stuff.”

  “Send the new guy to go buy a couple of cases.”

  “Private stock for you?”

  “No, get enough for everybody.”

  “Good stuff, eh?”

  “Only the best served here at Belvedere,” Bolan stated, his mind whirling with the possibilities.

  Heading straight up to the fifth floor, Bolan went directly into his private bathroom, splashed some water on his face, then toweled it off.

  Refreshed, he sat behind an antique mahogany desk. The wood was so old it had darkened to nearly black, and the top was green leather rimmed by brass studs. It was impressive, and expensive. Bolan had purchased the piece of furniture because it was thick enough to stop most small-caliber rounds—unlike the flimsy pressboard that most desks were made of these days. The art of craftsmanship was a thing of the past.

  Suddenly the office door crashed open and in walked a mature woman pushing a cart loaded with coffee, cream, sugar and mugs. Although clearly middle-aged, her uniform fit snugly and displayed a lot of cleavage. She had a generous mouth, with an easy smile, and flashing blue eyes.

  “Evening, sir,” she said in a throaty voice that was almost a purr.

  Bolan merely nodded politely in reply. However, he certainly enjoyed watching her leave just as much as he had enjoyed seeing her arrive. Back in her day, the woman had to have been a real heartbreaker.

  Less than an hour later there was a soft knock on the door, and in walked a small man carrying a briefcase.

  “Mr. Giancova?” he asked, flashing a smile.

  Lowering his mug of coffee, Bolan studied the man. He certainly fit the description. His hair was slicked back in an antiquarian military style, and he had a pointed beard, almost a goatee but not quite. His suit was dark and sharply creased, his shoes shiny enough to pass muster at Marine boot camp.

  Bolan waved at a leather chair. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you.” Taking the chair, the man set down the briefcase. “It’s late, so I will get straight to business.”

  “First, who are you?” Bolan asked impatiently.

  “Call me...Ishmael.”

  “Like the character from Moby Dick?”

  “A rose by any other name...” He smiled again. It had all the warmth of an open grave.

  Bolan snorted a laugh. “Okay, Izzy, what’s the pitch?”

  The man who called himself Ishmael smiled tolerantly. “This will explain everything,” he said, opening the briefcase to withdraw a slim laptop. “Our service is called Castle. If I may...?”

  As if he was not very interested, Bolan shrugged.

  A video started to play on the small screen. Oddly, it was very similar to almost every commercial for insurance that Bolan had ever seen, except that this one actually showed several of the prison escapes, the faces of the people involved blurred to maintain their confidentiality.

  Ten minutes later it cycled to an end and the screen went blank.

  “Clever, really clever,” Bolan said, templing his fingers. “How long has this been gong on?”

  “Several years. We are a relatively new concern.”

  “I see,” Bolan said. “Well...thank you for the truly informative lecture. Goodbye.”

  “You are not interested?” Ishmael asked in surprise. “I can supply you with a list of satisfied customers across the world...”

  “No need for that,” Bolan replied with a slow smile. “I’m rich enough to provide everything you promise, and maybe even a bit more.”

  “Ah! But there’s a new law that forces—”

  “Not for me,” Bolan interrupted. “I meant for others.”

  That took a moment to process. “You’re going into competition with us?” Ishmael gasped.

  Bolan spread his arms wide. “Why not? The profit margin promises to be astronomical, and after a few successes the customers will come flooding in!”

  “My employer will not be pleased over this,” Ishmael said, stroking his short beard. “It may be wise to reconsider.”

  “No need. The video sold me on the idea too well,” Bolan stated gruffly. “I’ll offer the exact same service that Castle does, but at a much lower price.”

  “Please
take a moment to reflect upon this,” Ishmael said. “We are very big and powerful. While you own one crystal meth lab still being repaired...”

  Bolan poured himself some coffee. “Four.”

  “Besides, there are— What?”

  “Four. I own four meth labs, a coke smuggling network, seventeen brothels, two casinos, a legitimate oil refinery, a titanium mine and a hundred other legal businesses. I can afford to take a loss for a few months on this until you’re broke, and then I seize all of your former customers and the prices go back to normal. SOP. Just business.”

  “Sir...this means war,” Ishmael said, slowly standing.

  “Not necessarily,” Bolan said, wiping his hand clean on a napkin before snapping his fingers.

  The office door opened and Glenn and Weinberg walked in with weapons drawn. Ishmael did nothing as they placed a suitcase on the floor next to his briefcase.

  “Two million in cash,” Bolan said with a gesture.

  “A bribe?”

  “No, a recruitment bonus. You work for me now.”

  “And if I don’t want to?”

  Bolan snapped his fingers again. A moment later there came the low roar of a working wood chipper.

  It took Ishmael a moment to identify the noise, and he went pale. “I see,” he whispered. “If I may...?”

  “Please.”

  Bending, Ishmael opened the suitcase. Lifting out a package of bills, he flipped through the money like playing cards, then stuffed it back inside. “They’re warm,” he said with an odd tone in his voice.

  “Freshly washed,” Bolan said. “Small bills, nonsequential and thoroughly washed to remove any airborne trace of my product. Some banks scan big cash deposits for isotonic residue of illegal substances.”

  “Both wise and wary. Those are excellent traits.”

  “I also own a wood chipper.”

  “So I heard. It would seem that I have no choice in this matter.”

  “None whatsoever. What’s your real name?”

  He paused, but only for a moment. “Dooley. William Dooley.... Wait, you had two million dollars in cash ready to go...for what, bribes?”

  “For you,” Bolan said, taking another sip from the mug.