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  Bolan knew from the Intel he'd gathered that Cullen had only recently been released from prison. The man was smart, good with money and with strategies. That was why Cullen had been brought in on the new cocaine outlet that had cut through Miami. Bolan wanted to know who had helped set him into business in the drug empire that was just getting off the ground.

  "You're crazy, man," Cullen said. "You ain't gonna get away with this shit. 1 don't know who you are, but…"

  "That's right," Bolan said in a graveyard voice, "you don't know who I am. Now shut up and get over here. Slowly."

  Cullen stepped through the tangle of arms and legs sprawled across the floor as grumbling curses followed his movement.

  Bolan said, "The instant your hands drop from your head without me telling you to move, I'll shoot you and move on to the next target. Understand?"

  Cullen nodded. A sheen of perspiration gleamed on his high forehead.

  "We're going out the back door," Bolan told him, "and you keep in mind I'm bringing up the rear. You get any ideas about turning this into a footrace, and it'll be one where you end up dead last. There's a car in the alley. It's unlocked. You get in on the passenger side. Now move."

  "You're a dead man," Cullen promised as he walked toward the back door. "You have no idea of the kind of people you're fucking around with."

  "Don't worry," Bolan assured him as he trailed him toward the exit, "you're going to get the chance to help enlighten me."

  The Executioner kept the riot gun aimed toward the group of bikers as he edged sideways to keep his prisoner in view as well. He could hear small, scrabbling movements the men made, heard the squeak of chairs shifting across the wooden floor. Dozens of sullen eyes followed his movements, and he could sense the collective readiness to kill.

  Cullen paused at the doorway, and Bolan spotted the tremor that ran through the man just before the biker whirled suddenly.

  Before Cullen could close in on him, the Executioner lifted his leg in a short roundhouse kick that thudded into Cullen's face. The biker flew backward from the impact, striking the door and shattering it from its hinges.

  Knowing the controlling balance of the play had suddenly shifted with the possibility of Cullen's escape into the alley, Bolan triggered the final round of the riot gun and exploded two of the lamps hanging over the tables. Glass shards rained down on the bikers as he dropped the riot gun and drew the .44.

  Outside, the air was immediately fresher, with more of a chill now.

  Cullen was sprawled across the railing that ringed the dock area, caught between the remains of the flimsy door and the ironwork.

  Moving in on the man, Bolan blocked an ineffectual blow with his arm and smashed the Desert Eagle against his prisoner's temple. Blood was already running from Cullen's nose and mouth from the kick. Gripping the man's leather jacket, the Executioner hauled the biker to his feet and pushed him down the steps toward the waiting Corvette.

  Cullen halted at the bottom of the steps, clinging to the railing and grumbling in a harsh voice. "You're gonna die, asshole, and you're gonna die real slow." He swayed uncertainly, trying to focus his eyes into a worthwhile glare.

  Bolan rapped the back of Cullen's head with the .44 as a warning, then forced the man ahead of him. The numbers had run out on this one, he knew, and he was operating on borrowed time. Even if Cullen hadn't been an important cog in the motorcycle gang's cocaine outlet, the bikers inside the tavern would be out for blood anyway. It would have been easier if he didn't need Cullen alive.

  Footsteps echoed through the alley as the night came alive with screaming sirens.

  "Son of a bitch," Cullen grunted as he was pushed forward again.

  A dark shadow peered out of the wrecked back door of the tavern.

  Twisting the Desert Eagle from Cullen's back, Bolan snapped a round in the shadow's general vicinity and was instantly rewarded by a yelp of pain.

  The shadow went away.

  Conscious of the approach of the local law as well as the fact that he could no longer contain the building, Bolan grabbed the back of Cullen's shirt as the man opened the Corvette's door. The interior light didn't come on, either, because he'd removed it along with the trunk light.

  "Get in," Bolan ordered, pushing down on his prisoner's head to keep it under the lip of the sports car's low roof. One of the last things he needed to happen was for Cullen to knock himself out and become deadweight. He jerked the handcuffs from under the newspaper as the man sat down. He snapped them into place around the captive's wrists and shut the door.

  Running steps echoed with a peculiar ringing cadence as two men came around the side of the tavern. Gunfire tore holes in the asphalt pavement of the alley near Bolan's feet. More shots raked the rear of the Corvette, imploding the back window.

  Raising the heavy .44 into target acquisition, the Executioner caught the first man in the chest, and the force of the 240-grain slug tossed him backward. The follow-up round spun the second man around as his feet skidded out from under him.

  Throwing himself across the hood of the car, Bolan slid to the other side. The trench coat swirled around him in a dark blur, catching at least one bullet from another biker taking up a stance inside the back door of the tavern, where the shadows provided cover.

  Bolan steadied himself behind the bulk of the Corvette, resting his hand and arm across the top of the sports car as he tried to use what little light still issued from the bar to outline the shooter against the darkness. Centering on a muzzle-flash, a silhouette blurred grudgingly into view. Squeezing carefully, he sent three 240-grain slugs deep into the shadows.

  The silhouette ripped free of the doorway and stumbled inward to signal a new chorus of profanity and feminine shrieks.

  Bolan opened his door and slid behind the wheel, taking the ignition key from where he'd left it under the seat. The big engine rumbled to life at once.

  Two shots thudded against the sports car's roof as he stabbed the stick into reverse. Cullen had his head down, trying in vain to cover up with his manacled hands. "You stupid bastard!" the man yelled. "You're going to get us both killed!"

  The snatch wasn't going anywhere near as smoothly as Bolan had anticipated. Cullen had more of a backing from the Outlaws than he'd expected. And the police had somehow been too damn close. Still, it was the only game in town, and he'd never turned down a hand he'd been dealt yet. Not as long as the stakes were worth it and he knew the deck wasn't stacked against him. Long odds were more often than not the only odds the Executioner garnered at all.

  The tires gave out a banshee scream as they fought for traction when he popped the clutch. He steered with his left hand, resting his right arm and the Desert Eagle on the seat backs.

  A man jumped free of the tavern as the Corvette went into reverse. Autofire flamed to life in his hands. Bullets chopped into the sports car's body with hollow thuds.

  Before the man could adjust his aim, Bolan twisted the wheel, sending the Corvette into a tight embrace with the brick wall of the tavern. A grating sound issued along the passenger side as the uneven brick surface ripped paint and body moldings from the car.

  Bolan fought the wheel, forcing the Corvette to stay with the grind, feeding it power. Trash cans scattered, and the smell of tortured rubber burned through the air. A brief yell ripped through the carnage and was swept away as the shooter went down under the sports car's tires.

  The car rocked out onto the street, then skidded in a tight semicircle when Bolan dropped the .44 between his knees, locked the brakes as he tapped the clutch and shifted into first gear.

  Hoping he hadn't damaged the sports car's sensitive steering when he ripped it along the tavern wall, Bolan dropped a heavy foot on the accelerator and felt the ass end of the Corvette dancing as it struggled for traction.

  Traffic was sparse, and what little there was didn't bother to compete for the street.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, Bolan saw that at least four Miami PD squad cars had roared int
o the parking lot of the Red Rooster. Bikers had scattered across the motorcycles and were attempting to flee even as the uniformed officers tried to close them in. A squad car slid into position behind the Executioner, locking onto his tail with flashing lights.

  Bolan shifted gears, skidding across the first intersection as he built up speed. He didn't want to tangle with the law. Hal Brognola wasn't even aware of this Miami strike. The Intel had been too sudden to allow the grim warrior's Justice contact to erect any kind of cover, and too damn hot to allow to cool. And if the rumblings Bolan had heard so far were any indication, the federal networks were so leaky on this operation that the pipeline would have known about him before he could have taken this first step against it.

  If the police got a hold of him now, there was every chance he would be processed through the system before Brognola even knew he was in trouble. And once Bolan's true name was discovered, it would be too late to do anything.

  It was a major drawback he had in his arm's-length relationship with Justice these days, but it was also what allowed him to play a free hand wherever he felt needed. Like now. Like in Miami.

  He took the next intersection at the last possible moment as the cruiser crept up on him, barely succeeding in cutting off an eighteen-wheeler taking the downtown circuit. The police car wasn't so lucky. Twisted out of control by the centrifugal force it had built up, the cruiser broadsided the cab of the big truck and effectively blocked the street.

  A few streets farther on, he decreased his speed, heading for the beach and a place to dump the car. The ownership papers would lead investigators nowhere, he knew, but it was dangerous to stay with the car now.

  So, yeah, the heat was on in Miami.

  And the Executioner was going to take an active part to make sure the right people got torched when the lid came off the simmering witch's brew.

  2

  "So, if you're not a cop," Cullen said, "what are you?"

  "An interested party," Bolan responded.

  "Yeah, a tough guy, right?" Cullen sneered. He wiped at the dried blood on his face with his manacled hands. "Well, I'll tell you right now, the guys you're messing with on this thing will bury you once they find out you're messing in their business."

  Bolan ignored the man, keeping a fist around the Beretta in the pocket of his trench coat.

  He'd left the Corvette in town after taking care to wipe it down, wanting to make sure none of the informants he'd had in the car earlier would be printed and picked up. Though they didn't know him for who he truly was, investigators following his trail would pick up on the fact that he was interested in the new cocaine connections that were flooding the city. Of course, they might draw those conclusions anyway, once they realized he'd snatched Cullen, but they wouldn't be so quick to think he was tracking the source of the pipeline down.

  There were other agencies interested in the cocaine flow. The DEA people, operating under FBI sponsorship, were on the scene, trying to coordinate activities through the local branches of law enforcement. Bolan had seen some of their agents earlier in the day, still keeping watch on different routes that had been used for shipments during the past few weeks, hoping to catch the smugglers in a repeated maneuver. Desperate people were involved in the operation — desperate individuals trying to turn a profit on the trafficking and desperate cops trying to put those individuals out of business.

  Law enforcement agencies hadn't been moving well on this one. So far almost a dozen men, including three members of the Coast Guard, had been killed by the smugglers. Two undercover cops had been found murdered in public places with Colombian neckties. Two more were still to be found.

  Bolan didn't figure they would be.

  He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone seemed to be taking undue interest in them. It was just past midnight, and a pale silver moon hung only a little above the blue-black of the ocean. People were still moving around the main marina area almost two hundred yards away. Lights swayed in the distance, hanging from the decks of the yachts and houseboats tucked into the pier so closely together. Strains of music filtered into the unseasonably chill night air, echoing the loneliness that lay over the oceanfront.

  "So, what're you gonna do, tough guy?" Cullen asked, twisting to peer at Bolan. "Find a good place to shoot me and get the job done?"

  Bolan gave him a cold glance, already sick of the man. Cullen's record ran the gamut of reprehensible sins and only showed an increased aptitude for upper management in recent years. Getting ready to make the move from enforcement and management for the Outlaws to a more legitimate facet of the gang's businesses.

  "If I'd wanted you dead," Bolan answered, "you'd be dead by now." Cullen stumbled in the loose sand and went down. Bolan stopped, hanging back and keeping the Beretta trained on the man. Cullen cursed but made no move to gain his feet.

  "Get up," Bolan ordered. "And don't repeat this."

  "It would be a lot easier if I wasn't wearing these bracelets," Cullen grumbled.

  "You get to wear those for the dumb stunt you pulled back at the bar," Bolan said. "If they keep you from getting too brave, maybe I won't have to shoot you."

  Cullen pushed himself to his knees and stood up. "How much farther?"

  "Not much."

  "You said that ten minutes ago."

  "You know," Bolan said, "you might consider the fact that your nuisance value is going to exceed your worth to me if you don't give your mouth a rest."

  Cullen gave him a lopsided grin and started walking again. "Just a reflex action, you know. Kind of keeps my mind off that little itch at the base of my skull that keeps waiting for the bullet."

  "Like I said, Cullen, play your cards right, and there's not going to be a bullet."

  Cullen snorted in derision. "Yeah, like spilling my guts to you is gonna keep me alive."

  "It's something to consider."

  "Sure."

  "It kept you alive back at the bar." The wind swept in off the water, carrying a briney scent and plastering the trench coat around Bolan's legs. He fell into place behind his prisoner.

  "Where are we headed?"

  "The boat house just ahead."

  "Why didn't you just drive there instead of leaving the car two miles away?" Cullen asked, referring to the backup rental Bolan had sequestered under another name. "Or do you just like slogging through this shit in the middle of the night?"

  Bolan didn't answer. He played the scene at the tavern over again in his mind. No matter how he looked at it, it hadn't made sense that so many police cruisers just happened to be in the area. An undercover tag team monitoring Cullen's activities was something he could accept. But the uniformed police had been ready for a heavy engagement. There was no reason for it, unless they had gotten wind that an unidentified force was rolling on this one with them. That would provide an explanation. And maybe he had been given up by one of the informants he'd contacted. He was directly engaging the operation himself at an earlier stage than he would have liked, but the pace wasn't going to slow down to let him find his stride. It was going to be a devilish tightrope walk until he could find a handle on the operation concerning the cops and the cocaine cowboys. At the moment, he had his hands on more information concerning trafficking in the area than Aaron Kurtzman showed on his computers.

  "What kind of deal can we work out here?" Cullen asked.

  "I'm not offering a negotiable deal," Bolan replied. "You'll take what I give you."

  "And what is that?"

  "You get to live."

  "Sweet Jesus, but you're a generous son of a bitch."

  "Care to try for the other option and see how you like that?"

  "Is this some kind of takedown?" Cullen asked. "'Cause if it is, I can steer you away from this gig, man, 'cause this is a heavy number."

  "I already know that, Skip. I just need the names of some of the players."

  "Maybe you figure I know more than I really do. What happens then?"

  "Come on, Skip, everybody k
nows you're top dog for the Outlaws. You going to try to make me believe you don't know who you're doing business with?"

  Cullen stopped and turned around.

  Bolan mirrored the movement.

  "If I tell you what I know, I'm a dead man."

  Bolan's voice was low and unforgiving. "You're that already, guy. I'm here to assure you of a new lease on life. If you come across with the names I need."

  Mopping nervously at his bloody face with his manacled hands, Cullen said, "I got a cigarette inside my jacket. You mind if I smoke?"

  "Go ahead." Bolan had patted the biker down before switching cars.

  Cullen fumbled a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket and lit up. He breathed out smoke in twin plumes that were swept away by the ocean breeze. "You don't give a guy much choice — you know that?"

  Bolan gave him a grim smile. "You know the score, Skip. Never offer anybody a deal unless it's a deal you want them to take."

  "Yeah." Cullen sucked on the cigarette again. "Yeah."

  "This deal's got an expiration date on it, too."

  Cullen nodded as if he understood. "You know about the delivery tonight, too, huh?"

  Bolan didn't, but he said he did anyway.

  "You must have yourself some ears, pal."

  "The clock's ticking, Skip."

  Pained indecision etched across Cullen's face, made hollow and fleshless by the pale moonlight. "If I tell you what I know, and I mean everything, what am I buying myself?"

  "The chance to feel the wind on your face in the morning when the sun comes up. For a lot of people, that's enough."

  "It's enough for me, too, so you don't have to worry that I'll sell you out as soon as I get the chance."

  "What do you have to sell, Skip? You don't even know who I am."

  The cigarette made a bright orange coal in Cullen's cupped hands. "If you were a cop, I wouldn't even talk to you now. If you weren't as good at handling yourself as you are, I wouldn't talk to you. And if the guy I'm about to give you hadn't sold my ass down the river a few years back, I wouldn't talk to you, either." He smiled, but it was a clumsy artifice of real pleasure. "So, in a manner of speaking, you're gonna be helping me see to it the asshole gets what he deserves."