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  On the side, Trask also carried certain messages — and sometimes payoffs — to the kind of people Vos could never reach in person, even if he had been free to travel stateside: judges, legislators, candidates for office who required a quick financial boost in their campaign, a prosecutor faced with crippling expenses after doctors diagnosed his only child as suffering from cancer. Some would never know that they were speaking indirectly to the man from Bogotá; a few wouldn't have cared in any case. When they were called upon to pay their debts, they would respond on cue, or they would face the certainty of swift and final punishment.

  This afternoon, Trask made his way through half a dozen checkpoints en route to the High Power "penthouse," allowing himself to be searched and scrutinized, his briefcase opened in a search for weapons. He followed arrows painted on the floor and walls, spent time in steel-barred sally ports and smiled for the surveillance cameras. He had an escort for the elevator ride to High Power, another hulking deputy met him there when the doors hissed open. The man led Trask along a beige corridor, through more barred gates to the tier's single visiting room.

  The furniture, consisting of a table and two chairs, was bolted to the floor. Trask sat with his attaché case before him while the guard went off to fetch his client. Several minutes passed before the deputy came back with four companions who surrounded Vos as if expecting him to make a break to nowhere. They seated him across from Trask, fastening his left wrist and both ankles to the chair with chains.

  Trask frowned. "Is that entirely necessary?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Silently the squad of deputies retreated and the door was closed. One man remained just outside, his moon face plastered to the wire-mesh window, watching every move Trask made.

  "Are you all right?" he asked his client.

  Vos responded with an easy smile. "I've been in jail before. Some of them were not as civilized as others. How goes the case?"

  Trask cleared his throat, his briefcase still unopened on the table. He wouldn't need notes to tell him there had been no progress in his bids for bail.

  "It's still no go on any kind of bond," he said. "I'm filing an appeal, of course, but in the circumstances, I see no reason for optimism. You're considered an escape risk at the very least, and no one wants to take responsibility for opening those gates."

  "A campaign contribution?" Vos suggested.

  "Federal judges aren't elected. They're appointed for a term of life, and none I know of are prepared to risk impeachment and disgrace on your behalf. A grant of bail at this point would be suicide for anyone who signed the paperwork."

  "Then I must win release by other means."

  "From where I sit, that has to mean dismissal of the charges. With Aguire in the prosecutor's bag, we haven't got a prayer in that direction."

  "Then we must remove Aguire from the bag."

  Trask frowned, his eyes averted. "That's no easy job."

  "If it was easy," Vos replied, "I could not find it in my heart to pay a million dollars cash for his removal."

  Trask glanced up at Vos, concluding that his client was entirely serious. "A million cash?"

  "Upon completion of the job. When our amigo has been dealt with and the charges are dismissed for lack of evidence."

  "It may not be that simple. DEA will have his affidavits filed and introduced as evidence. His death won't mean a thing with all that paperwork, the videocassettes and tape recordings."

  Vos dismissed the problem with a gesture of his one free hand. "Confessions and cassettes do not concern me. Evidence has disappeared before. It will again."

  "Have you got something in the works?"

  "A fool allows his fate to be controlled by circumstances. I am not a fool."

  "Of course not, but…"

  "I wish for you to make arrangements, Nathan. Carlos must be silenced by the time we face the judge in California. He must not appear in court."

  "I understand, Ernesto, but I don't know how…"

  "I do," Vos countered. "There is one man you can trust to make arrangements. Call him when you leave. Immediately. We have no time left to waste."

  "His name?"

  Vos whispered it, delighted by Trask's obvious surprise. From memory the dealer cited home and office numbers of his contact, repeating them while Trask dug out pen and notepad. Jotting down the numbers in reverse order in case the piece of paper was lost, Trask didn't note the contact's name. His memory was excellent, and shock would help him keep the name in mind.

  "Will he cooperate to that extent?" the lawyer asked.

  "I have no doubts."

  "In that case, I believe we're finished for the moment. I'll be back tomorrow with a full report of his response, if you can think of anything you need…"

  "My freedom. It is in your hands."

  "I'll do my best."

  "I know that, Nathan." Vos was smiling now. "You love this life too much to fail."

  Trask signaled to the deputy that he was finished, clinging to his seat as Vos was led away. He hoped the deputy didn't observe his trembling as he rose and trailed his escort toward the elevator. This time, as the steel-barred gates swung shut behind him, Trask imagined they were locking him inside, and sudden claustrophobia produced a sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

  He had just agreed to the solicitation of a felony — or several felonies, including murder and a string of lesser crimes such as bribery, obstructing justice and destroying federal evidence. The latter risks were nothing new to Trask, and he had learned to deal with tension by experience, but farming out a contract — and a million-dollar contract in the bargain — was a first.

  He wondered if he had the nerve to pull it off.

  And passing through the checkpoints on his way to freedom, Trask was well aware he had no choice.

  * * *

  "I want protection."

  Felix Pratt leaned back in his chair and spread his hands. "You have protection, Carlos."

  "This is not protection." There was anger in Aguire's voice as he surveyed the small apartment, curtains drawn against the threat of daylight.

  "We're moving you tomorrow. Never fear. I've got it covered."

  "Vos will find me, hunt me down and have me killed."

  "No way. I've got a decoy on the launchpad, and by the time his shooters realize they've fucked it up, we'll have you in L.A., tucked up in maximum security."

  "How many escorts will I have?"

  "I'm pulling in two experts."

  "Two?" Aguire felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, coupled with a sudden throbbing pain behind one eye. "Two men? Vos has an army on the street. Are you insane?"

  Pratt's smile was strained. "I think we can agree it doesn't pay to advertise. If I stick you in armored car with black-and-whites for escorts, I'd be telling Vos exactly where you are."

  "He doesn't need your help. He'll find me anyway."

  "I'm betting that he won't."

  "You're betting with my life."

  "And my career. I can't afford to fuck this up, no way, no how. The company you keep, right now I'd say your life means more to me than it has ever meant to you."

  Aguire scowled. "Two men. Where did you find them?"

  "Never fear. I went outside the shop. These guys are specialists in hit-and-run, evasion, counterterrorist techniques… you name it. If I had to make the trip myself, I'd want them riding shotgun."

  "Fine. You make the trip."

  "Now, Carlos, we've been through all that. There's no way I can make it any safer for you. Hell, the change of venue to L.A. was your idea, remember? You said Vos has too many connections here in Florida."

  "He has connections everywhere."

  "Agreed, but no one knows the route you're taking. Three nights on the road, and then you're in Los Angeles, safe and sound. I've got it covered."

  "And the others?"

  Pratt frowned. "We're looking."

  "Vos has dealt with them already."

  "You don't know that.
There's a decent chance that Cruz is hiding in Toronto. We've got people looking for him, but they have to go through channels, working with the RCMP. And Chicago thinks they have a line on Sanchez. Maldonado left a message he was going on vacation. We've got feelers out with NYPD and the Bureau, but they haven't traced him yet."

  "They never will, unless they trace him to a grave."

  Pratt didn't bother to comment. "Barbosa's place was empty when the Frisco team went calling. I'm inclined to think he got a tip and saw them coming. I believe he'll surface, given time."

  "Enriquez?"

  "He went out to get some smokes last night, and that's the last his wife has seen of him. She says. I'm betting that he's found himself a hole and pulled it in behind him, waiting for the smoke to clear."

  "A hole. I would not be surprised."

  "There's no way Vos could tag them all that fast. He's only human."

  "There were six men who could link him with the business. Vos knows I betrayed him. He cannot afford to take a chance on others bolting while he sits in jail. I know the way his mind works, Pratt. Those men are dead."

  The DEA man shrugged. "Okay. Let's say you're right. So what? You ought to thank your lucky stars Enriquez has been taken care of in L.A. He would have been the one assigned to take you out before the trial."

  "If I survive that long."

  "You ever hear of looking on the bright side, Carlos? I've never seen a guy so set on giving up."

  "I have not given up," Aguire protested. "I face reality."

  "Face this. The surest way to boost your life expectancy from this point on is by convicting Vos and putting him away forever."

  "He will be replaced before the prison gates swing shut."

  "What's that to you? The new kid on the throne won't give a flying fuck who put him there. If anything, he'll figure you're some kind of hero, setting up his rise to fame and fortune. Any way you stack it, he'll be too damned busy counting out his cash to waste time paying Ernie's IOUs."

  "Vos still has many friends."

  "We'll see how long they stick around when he pulls life plus ninety-nine. You ever hear of Al Capone?"

  "Chicago?"

  "That's the one. The tax boss nailed him for eleven years in 1933, and there were stories in the press about how Scarface Al was pulling strings from Alcatraz, deciding every little thing about what happened on his old home turf. Fact is the Nitti crowd took over everything in sight and cut it up among themselves. They put Al on a pension, like some kind of secretary who's retired. The day he got paroled, he headed straight for Florida and next thing anybody knew, the bum was dead."

  "I see your point, but…"

  "Hey, no buts. The Nitti crowd were gentleman compared to Vos's playmates. And when Ernie takes the fall, he won't be coming back. You follow? Bye-bye birdie."

  "No parole?"

  "Oh, he'll be eligible, sure. But first he'll have to serve the standard first half of his sentence. Life plus ninety-nine would make that sixty-five years, minimum. How old you say he was right now?"

  "Ernesto Vos is thirty-five years old."

  "Well, there you are. You think he's going to make the hundred-year mark in a cell? And if he does, do you plan on being here to greet him? Carlos, sweetheart, all we have to do is see you through the trial, and you're home free."

  "I wish I had your confidence."

  Pratt grinned. "I'll lend you some."

  "Two men," Carlos said again, unable to suppress a tone of disbelief.

  "Two soldiers. Stone-cold killers. Hell, if these guys can't protect you, no one can."

  "That is precisely my concern."

  "I'm tired of dancing with you, Carlos. When we popped you running grass from Mexico, you had a choice to make. I could have hung you out to dry on that, or let you walk and try to make Vos understand why you were dealing with the Castro brothers on your free time. You decided it was easier to sing. You made that choice. If you'd prefer to change your mind, I'm easy. We've still got the bulk-weight important charge, and Vos will walk without your testimony. Shall I guess what he'll be doing after thirty seconds on the street?"

  "You need me, Pratt. Remember that."

  "It's on my mind around the clock."

  "When do I meet these supermen?"

  "They'll pick you up tomorrow morning. Think of it as a vacation, all expenses paid. You'll have a chance to see America, up close and personal."

  "Tomorrow morning."

  "Right. You ought to try to get some sleep."

  "Goodbye, Pratt."

  "Not goodbye, amigo. Just so long."

  Pratt spent a moment with the guards before he left, reminding them to stay alert and watch for any signals that Aguire was prepared to bolt. He wasn't prepared to let his only living witness slip away, while the appointed sentries filled their time with cards and stories that were mainly sex. If Aguire went, he'd be going out feet first, and there had damn well better be some DEA men stretched out on the ground beside him.

  Carlos had been right, of course, about the other five — Barbosa, Sanchez, Maldonado, Cruz and Enriquez, the five men who could theoretically connect Ernesto Vos with cocaine traffic spanning North America. Within a day of his arrest, Vos had reached out for each in turn, and they were gone. If any of them surfaced, Pratt would be surprised. If any of them turned up breathing, it would be a goddamned miracle.

  No matter. None of them had any motive for betraying Vos, and if they weren't on his side, Pratt much preferred to have them dead. It was a simple, economical solution, and it left the outfit theoretically deprived of leadership while Vos was under lock and key. All things considered, Pratt was pleased with how the operation had worked out so far.

  The snag, from that point on, would be Brognola's people. Never mind their hotshot reputations or their past performance. Pratt hadn't been privileged to inspect their files, and he had no idea what kind of show it took to please Brognola. If the new boys fumbled…

  Moving toward his car, Pratt lighted a thin cigar and let the smoke trail out behind him. He'd been compelled to go outside the department for help, and Hal Brognola's shop had been the only game in town. The man from the DEA would have to keep his fingers crossed and pray that everything went down on schedule. If anything went wrong, it would be his ass on the line. He'd be all dressed up with nowhere left to go.

  And nowhere was a lonely place to be.

  4

  "Here she is." Pratt waved a hand in the direction of the chosen vehicle. "If you see anything you want to change, sing out. We've got a little time to spare."

  "I'll let you know," Mack Bolan told him as he began his inspection.

  At Johnny's urging, they had opted for a General Motors Jimmy with the standard four-wheel drive and something extra underneath the hood. The engine had been modified to yield an extra forty miles per hour at the high end of the scale, and the Police Pak theoretically enabled them to pace a speeding squad car, if they had to.

  "Off-road tires," Pratt pointed out. "We had them puncture-proof, but this is what you asked for, right?"

  "Affirmative."

  "The puncture-proofs still have their weak spots," Johnny added, "and they're worthless if we have to lose the highway for a while."

  "You traveling cross-country, guys?"

  "We're keeping all our options open."

  The driver's door was open, and the Executioner climbed in to get the Jimmy's feel. The rear seat could be folded down to make a bed if they were forced to camp, and the windows to the rear were tinted, foiling any attempt to see inside the vehicle.

  "The glass is bulletproof," Pratt stated. "For what it's worth. I won't pretend it's perfect, but it lets you have an edge. Sometimes that's all you need."

  "I've heard that."

  Bolan found a CB radio beneath the dashboard, and a stack of highway maps he had requested in the glove compartment. There was nothing in the console set between the two front seats, but he would see to that himself before they hit the road.


  Brognola had been pacing on the sidelines, and he chimed in now. "What kind of armor does she have?"

  "It was a trade-off," Pratt replied. "Your basic quarter inch. I could have given you a tank, but what you lose in weight, you gain in speed. I figure you'll be gassing up this monster every couple hundred miles, regardless, but there's no such thing as skinny armor."

  "Bumpers?" Bolan asked him.

  "Reinforced for ramming, front and back. Your grille is likewise tougher than the standard model, but it's not invincible. Don't get me wrong on this. You start in butting heads with semis and you're bound to lose."

  Bolan popped the hood, and Johnny moved around to check the power plant. On Johnny's cue, he turned the engine over, then let it idle, revving several times to let his brother hear the mill unwind. When Johnny was satisfied, he killed it and the hood was lowered into place once more.

  Stepping down, he made a final circuit of the Jimmy, noting that the plates were Florida civilian-issue, as he had requested. Otherwise the vehicle looked slightly used, and Bolan knew that it was last year's model. He'd been concerned about the idea of driving anything too new, too perfect, that would make them objects of attention on the road. The creamy neutral paint job helped to make the Jimmy inconspicuous despite its size, and once they got some road dust on the vehicle, colors would be difficult to judge with any accuracy from a distance.

  "Satisfied?" he asked his brother.

  Johnny shrugged. "She ought to do the job."

  "We'll take it," Bolan said to Pratt.

  "Will that be cash, or charge?"

  The joke fell flat, but Pratt forced a chuckle as he moved in the direction of the tailgate.