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  The man laughed. "You're all alike, you gringos. You can never imagine the problem. That's because you are the problem."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You come down here with your fat wallets and you look to buy trouble. Drugs, usually. Like you, eh?"

  "Drugs? I don't know anything about any drugs."

  "No? Then what's this?" He tossed a thin package, wrapped in translucent plastic, onto the table in front of him. It was the only furniture in the room. Bolan noted that there were no windows, either.

  "I've never seen that before in my life."

  "It was in your bag, Señor Corday."

  "No, sir, it wasn't."

  "You're calling one of my men a liar, señor. I should advise you to be careful."

  "I'm not calling anybody anything. I'm just telling you that package wasn't in my bag. I've never seen it before. And it looks to me like it's never been opened. How do you know it's drugs?"

  The man didn't answer that question, either. Instead, he walked to another steel door, pushed it open, then let it close behind him with a dull clank. He looked at the clerk who had processed him, but the man shook his head and turned away. The other man shrugged his shoulders.

  Bolan was calculating the odds against the whole mess being a simple case of mistaken identity. They were astronomical, and he knew it. But that left only one explanation — someone had tipped off Nicaraguan customs, someone with a lot of clout, and a reason to put him on ice. Immediately he thought of Emiliano Rivera. But it made no sense. Rivera didn't need anything this elaborate to get him out of the picture. All he had to do was to tell Bartlett he wanted another man. Why go to all this trouble? But someone had, and that someone had a reason.

  He had to get word to his contact man, but he had no idea how. And it looked as if it wasn't going to be easy, even if he had a way to do it. Before he had halfway puzzled through his situation, the officer was back, accompanied by two men in green fatigues. The new arrivals positioned themselves on either side of him, like bookends, and shoved him toward the far door.

  On the other side of the door, Bolan found himself in a long, narrow hallway. Its walls were unpainted cinder block, and the right-hand wall was broken by a half-dozen doors as anonymous as the one he'd just come through. The soldiers prodded him with the muzzles of their AK-47s, striking him every so often just for the fun of it.

  A third man, apparently a noncom, judging by the stripes on his arm, waited at the far end of the hallway. As Bolan drew close, he opened the door behind him and stepped back. In the surge of bright sunlight, he was reduced to a vague shadow, as featureless as those of the Hiroshima victims etched forever into the stone ruins after the bomb.

  Bolan saw the rear end of a jeep behind the noncom. Everything shimmered in the heat, and the vehicle seemed as if it were about to dissolve in the wavering glare. Hustled into the jeep, he was handcuffed to a steel bar welded to the left side panel.

  "Where are we going?" Bolan asked, switching to Spanish when the same question in English got no response. The Spanish was just as useless. The men ignored him completely. The noncom climbed behind the wheel, revved the engine, then popped the clutch. The jeep jerked forward, throwing Bolan back against the seat. The cuffs dug into his wrist as they took his full weight. The warrior righted himself, then turned his body slightly to wedge himself into the left corner, keeping his left arm half extended.

  The road to Managua was littered with jerry-built shacks, mostly raw wood and tar paper, with rusty corrugated metal roofs. The skyline of the capital city in the near distance seemed out of place, but Bolan had seen it all before. It was always like this, people clinging to the last shreds of their dignity, living on the edges of big cities as if they stood in line at the gates of heaven.

  The jeep roared into the capital and wound through back streets, mostly lined with tumbledown shops and makeshift houses. They sped through the narrow streets as if they were empty, sending pedestrians scurrying in every direction. The whole place smelled of rotting food and cheap spices. Under the hot sun the stink of bad fish swirled around them, mingling with the stench of poverty. The children, running in packs like small rodents, threw stones and rotting vegetables at the vehicle as it passed, a gentle enough expression of their frustration.

  The jeep finally slowed, pulling between two tall buildings and stopping in a narrow alley behind what appeared to be an abandoned factory. Whatever it was, it wasn't a government building — it was the kind of place a man walked into but never came out of. Bolan knew he had one chance and that he had to take it. He shifted his weight, trying to loosen the cramped muscles of his back and shoulders.

  The driver killed the engine, then turned to eyeball Bolan while the other man jumped down and walked to the back of the vehicle, fishing for the cuff key in his shirt pocket. He held it to the light as if to see whether it were the right one, then leaned over the back wall of the jeep to unlock the cuffs.

  When the ring snapped open, the Executioner snapped his foot up, catching the soldier on the point of the jaw. The man's head whipped back, then he dropped like a dead mule. The driver started to move, but Bolan was ready for him. He lashed out with the cuffed hand, snaking the metal around the man's neck and grabbing the open ring with his free hand.

  Putting his full weight into it, he hauled on the chain, shutting off the guy's wind. The chain scraped across the driver's larynx, and Bolan could feel the man's fingernails digging at the backs of his hands. He pulled harder, then twisted, forcing his victim's head sharply to the right. The guy started to gag, but Bolan couldn't slack off until he blacked out. The man was armed, and if he raised an alarm, there was no telling how many would answer.

  The warrior took a chance. He let go of the chain and delivered a knockout punch to the driver's temple. He groaned and tumbled backward out of the jeep as Bolan scrambled over the rear. He stopped just long enough to grab an automatic pistol from the noncom's belt, then sprinted back down the alley toward the street.

  He took the corner at full tilt, then slowed. People glanced at him, then looked away in disinterest.

  He had to get off the street.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Vince Arledge was in a bad mood. The situation with Pagan was getting out of hand. He didn't like the bastard, but the money was too good to pass up. He'd seen too many guys buy the farm with nothing but a government insurance policy for the family. The kids never even knew what happened to their fathers half the time. That was cold, too cold. No way was he going to let it happen to him. Put some away, put a little more, then let it rain. He was covered.

  He sat in Chico's Pub, watching the long legs of the waitress. He waved to her to hurry up with his drink. She glared at him, then threaded her way through the crowd with a tray full of glasses.

  "What's your hurry?" she asked when she finally reached the table.

  "A man could die of thirst, waiting for you, babe."

  "Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," she replied.

  "I'll bet you say that to all the boys."

  "Not really. I save my good stuff for assholes like you."

  Arledge started to answer her, then changed his mind. He was drunk and she was too quick for him. The real secret of staying alive was to know when to run away, he thought. He watched her, a lopsided grin smeared across his face while he fished in his pocket for his wallet. When he managed to get it out, she was already looking for the bouncer, tapping one toe on the floor with a sharp, insistent rhythm.

  He plucked a ten out of the wad in his wallet and snapped it. She gave him a bored look, then reached for the bill, but he grabbed her wrist. "What do you say you and I get together later on, honey. I can make it worth your while."

  "Dream on. You couldn't afford me even if you were worth it."

  "You see that bill?"

  "Barely."

  Arledge laughed. "What would you say to fifty of those?"

  "Piss off."

  "High-priced, aren't you?
"

  The waitress leaned toward him, digging her long fingernails into his forearm. "I'm gonna count to three. If you're still holding my wrist when I finish, I'm gonna kick your balls all the way to Key West."

  Arledge laughed again.

  "One…"

  "Two…" he said.

  "Three…"

  "All right, all right." He let go. "I was just kidding around, honey."

  "You want to kid around, get a sense of humor first." She snatched the bill and turned in a single fluid motion. She was three steps away before he realized it. "What about my change?" he hollered.

  "Try therapy."

  Arledge shook his head. He was juiced again, and he knew it. He'd been hitting the sauce too hard for months. He worried it might be catching up with him. When he worried, he drank. Then he worried about his drinking some more. It was a no-win situation.

  He reached for the fresh drink, held it for a long moment, staring into the glass, then tossed half of the whiskey down with one swallow. He felt his head wobble, and he had a splitting headache. The music seemed to be getting louder. He ought to tell Monzon to find someplace else to meet. Mr. Clean wouldn't like it. But screw him.

  He rubbed the circles of condensation into a puddle on the table, then dipped a finger in to draw another, larger circle. He couldn't get it right. Trying to fix it just made it look more like an egg and less like a circle. A nest egg, he thought, that was what it was. His nest egg. He rubbed it out and tried again, this time holding one hand in the other as if his finger were some kind of awkward calligraphy tool.

  The new circle was no better, and he rubbed it out, then dried his hand on a damp napkin. He rolled the napkin into a ball and set up for a jump shot, tossed the paper and missed. He retrieved it, worked hard at rounding it out again and took another shot. The ball disappeared into a tangle of thick fingers. Blearily he looked up at Pedro Monzon, the big man's bald scalp electric blue and pink under the swirling lights.

  "Hey, Pedro, my man, qué pasa?"

  Monzon turned a chair around and sat down, crossing his arms on the back of the chair and resting his chin on a thick forearm. "You drunk again, amigo?"

  "Who, me? Shit, no, man. I'm just getting loose's all. You know how it is. These late nights, man, they take a toll on me."

  "You better watch your ass. Pagan's been hearing stories about you, man. He don't like what he's hearing, neither."

  "Fuck Pagan."

  "I'm gonna have to tell him you said that, Vincenzo."

  "Fuck you, too, then."

  "You ready, or not?"

  "I'm ready, I'm ready."

  "Let's go, then. This shit of yours is getting old real fast."

  Monzon stood, backing away from the table as if preparing to leap over it. He turned abruptly. A petite blonde, her back to him, was dancing out of control. He didn't see her until he knocked her down. Her partner, ten feet away, said something Arledge didn't hear. But Monzon did.

  He glared at the guy, flipped him a bird and brushed past. Arledge, finally realizing that Monzon was going with or without him, got to his feet. He moved around the table, lost his balance for a second, then stepped on the blonde's hand.

  She howled, and her boyfriend took a step toward Arledge, who stopped in his tracks. He was weaving slightly, and that encouraged the hesitant Galahad.

  "Hey, man, you stepped on her."

  "Yeah, pal, and you're next if you don't get the fuck out of the way,"

  "You want some of me, man, that's cool."

  "Yeah, asshole, I want some of you. I got to feed my dog." The boyfriend took another step forward, encouraged by Arledge's slurred speech. Arledge grinned. He held a hand in the air, fingers up, and wagged them. "Come on, tough guy. Come on."

  Arledge was tilting over the edge now, and the guy sensed it. "Chill out, man. You should be more careful, that's all."

  "Hey, if I want to step on your tart, I'll fucking step on her, all right?" The guy backed up, and Arledge followed him. "I said all right?"

  Monzon stepped past the guy and pulled Arledge by the arm. "Come on, man, I've got to hang out here. Don't fuck it up for me." He glared at the white knight, who took one look at Monzon and lost interest in the confrontation. He bent over the girl, who was still trying to get up, and Arledge kicked him in the rear.

  Monzon dragged him away, squeezing his upper arm so hard that it went limp. "Cut it out, Pedro," Arledge grated.

  "You're pathetic, amigo. You know that? Pathetic…"

  "If you were on time, I wouldn't get bored. Then I wouldn't have to drink."

  "You drink because you want to, Vincenzo. No other reason."

  "All right, save the goddamn sermon."

  Monzon shook him once, then let go. "Behave now." They were at the exit, and the Nicaraguan nodded to the pair of monstrous bouncers standing guard. Then they were outside.

  He opened the door of a Jaguar sedan and half helped, half shoved Arledge inside. He closed the door, shook his head and walked around to the driver's side.

  "Amigo, you have got to get a grip. Guillermo is getting very upset about all these stories he keeps hearing about you."

  "What stories? What's he hearing?"

  "You know…"

  "Well, maybe I do drink a little too much. It's not easy walking the edge of a sword, Pedro. I've got Gardner and Bartlett leaning on my ass, I've got Willie, I've got a bunch of assholes in Central America who are supposed to look like an army but not be one. Blah, blah, blah… It's old, man, old."

  "It gets easier. Pagan takes over down there, and we're set, man. You can hang out at the beach and dissolve your liver if that's what you want. But you've got to hang on, man. We go way back, Vincenzo, you and me. Way back. More than once I've had to tell Pagan to let you slide. I tell him, 'Sure, he fucked up, but everybody makes mistakes. I say, 'Look, we can't do it without him. But he doesn't think we need you. I've got to make sure he doesn't make up his mind that way, you understand? But you've got to work with me."

  "I appreciate that, Pedro. I really do. You know, we've worked together off and on for, what? Thirty years?"

  "Next month."

  "Okay, man. I won't blow it."

  "Okay." Pedro seemed satisfied. "Look, this deal is the biggest yet. We've got fifty keys. At thirty per, you figure it."

  "Mil and a half."

  "Tonight, man. In one hour a million and a half dollars right in the trunk of this car. Now let's all be cool and make sure the deal goes down according to the script, all right?"

  "What have we got for backup?"

  "I've got four guys. They're already at the warehouse. I told DeCarlo don't bring more than three guys. He said okay, but I don't think he's that stupid."

  "It doesn't matter. We're not gonna burn him. What's the difference?"

  "The difference is these Italians, they can't see past their noses. He sees a way he can keep fifty keys and save a mil and a half, what do you think he's gonna do?"

  "Nothing. If he wants the stuff to keep coming, he won't do anything. Like you said, he's not stupid."

  "No, but he's greedy. Same fucking thing, Vincenzo. See, our problem is, we've got ideals. We want the money for some reason. All he wants is the shit and the money."

  "He doesn't know who he's dealing with, does he?"

  "No, man. He knows you and me. After that, he's just guessing. But no way he's guessing right, which isn't a good thing for us. See, if he knows he's fucking with Pagan and the goddamn CIA, he makes the deal and goes about his business. He thinks he's got a couple of spring chickens, he gets stupid. That's what I don't like."

  "So maybe we drop a hint, make him think a little."

  "Can't do it. Pagan would have our nuts for breakfast. He's already taking too much heat. You know what happened to his fucking house. The goddamn papers are starting to sniff around. And…"

  "Look, I know all that. On my end, Gardner told me himself — keep it close. Nobody but nobody is supposed to know. Plausible deniabi
lity, all that shit. Bartlett doesn't even know. He'd shit a brick if he found out."

  "Fuck him. Man likes to smoke a pipe and talk about theory. Who needs it?"

  "But I have to handle him."

  "Then handle him, man. What the hell do you think you're getting paid for?"

  "You're right. I'll handle him."

  "Okay."

  Monzon concentrated on his driving. Their destination already loomed up ahead, a half-built warehouse that had been caught in the real estate bust. It sat on the waterfront like a reminder of just how easily aspirations could come up short.

  Monzon wheeled the vehicle into the weed-filled parking lot, got out of the car and walked to the trunk. Arledge joined him in time to take the first Galil. Monzon took another one for himself, jammed in a clip, stuck two more in his pockets and handed three to Arledge.

  "You ready?" Monzon asked.

  "Let's do it, compadre."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bolan felt conspicuous on the street. A man his size was a lightning rod for public attention, and when the population as a whole was on the short side, he was just that much more obvious. He had to find someplace to he low until dark. Three blocks from the alley he turned down a side street, looking for an abandoned building.

  The best he could do was a warehouse. Two vans were loading at a concrete dock, but the bulk of the building seemed deserted. Bolan edged along the side of the warehouse until he found a door. It was locked, and he cursed softly. He jogged around a corner and found himself staring into a broad expanse of waist-high brick walls. Weeds grew from the cracks in the walls, and vines hid some of the rubble on the ground.

  A long alley, unpaved and clogged with cardboard and litter, ran the length of the warehouse. He made sure no one was watching from either end, then dashed forward, tumbling over the nearest wall.

  He was in a box, and he knew it. He had killed one man and possibly a second. He had no papers — real or otherwise — a stolen pistol, and his «Corday» persona was a fugitive from something or other. Just what wasn't easy to figure out. He settled in for the long wait until sundown. His back against a wall, he watched the sky, keeping his ears open for the least unusual sound. He knew where to find his contact, but it wasn't something he wanted to risk until he knew where he stood.