Deep Recon Page 5

  * * *

  The Executioner was pleased that his ruse seemed to have worked. Burns was a cover identity from a previous op, one which had never been compromised, so he could use it again with impunity here. If anyone in Lee's organization had the wherewithal to check Corps records, they'd find Burns's name.

  Assuming the masquerade even got that far. Bolan was hoping he'd only need to assume the alias for the duration of the evening.

  The popular song blaring over the speakers came to an end, and an unseen DJ announced that there were new acts on both the main stage and the bar stage. Bolan didn't bother to register their names, as any woman working here would be using a pseudonym for the stage. These women were paid to be fantasies, and the reality of their actual lives was left in the dressing room.

  As the three dancers on the stage in front of them gathered up their outfits and ran off through a velvet-curtained wall, three new women — a blonde, a brunette and a redhead — came out onto the stage, dressed in bikinis or other outfits that were at the minimum placement and amount of textile to not violate indecent exposure laws. A new song started, and the women danced. The redhead was enthusiastic, or at least faked it especially well, her smile seeming genuine. Her moves corresponded to the rhythm of the song being played. The brunette was bored, her smile obviously fake and not extending to her eyes, and her movements languid. The blonde seemed to be playing in particular to a pair of crew-cut young men in white T-shirts and shorts who, Bolan guessed, had been tipping her fairly well throughout the night. Certainly the pair of them had already dropped considerable cash on alcohol, given their slurred shouts.

  The next several hours passed agonizingly slowly for Bolan. He went through his drink as slowly as he could get away with, not wanting to be impaired. He refused Delgado's offer of a cigarette, but the man himself went through almost a whole pack as the night wore on. No one else in the bar was smoking, but Bolan assumed that the same rules that allowed him free run of the VIP room also allowed Delgado to smoke indoors. The two bodyguards on either side of the table likely curtailed any complaints from the other patrons.

  After four songs, the dancers changed again, the guys with the crew cuts shortly thereafter taking the blonde into the back room.

  The Executioner had honestly never understood the appeal of such places. After all, if he was hungry, he didn't watch someone cook. True, it could be titillating, and Bolan certainly had a normal heterosexual male's appreciation of the female form, but this sort of objectification struck him as pointless.

  Bolan listened to Delgado's tales of being in-country. "So we're sitting there, and the lieutenant, he says that he just heard it straight from the general — no way in hell there was a Taliban base in the Adi Ghar caves. That's just a crazy rumor, he says, and we're to discourage anyone else from talkin' about it." Delgado leaned forward. "I swear to Christ, two seconds later one of the privates puts CNN on, and they're reporting that Coalition forces just found a goddamn Taliban base in the goddamn Adi Ghar caves."

  Bolan laughed. "That's too funny. Damn reporters."

  "Hey, it's not like they got in the way or nothin'. I mean, that was a good catch there, it's just that generals don't know their asses from their elbows." Delgado slugged down the rest of his second tequila, then looked at Minaya. "Get me another one, willya?" He glanced at Bolan, then frowned at how much tequila was left in his glass — still his first. "Damn, Burns, what kind of Marine are you? They don't let you into the Corps 'less you got a cast-iron liver. Keep up!"

  With the ease of long practice, Bolan managed to make it look like he was gulping down a huge amount of tequila without actually swallowing it. Then he pretended to develop a coughing fit, leaning away from Delgado and the bodyguards so they couldn't see him use the cough to cover spitting the tequila onto the floor. The club's darkness aided in his deception, as the only bright lights were directed at the two stages.

  Deliberately slurring his consonants a bit more, Bolan said, "Woo! That's some good stuff."

  After letting out a hearty guffaw, Delgado said to Minaya, "Two more, James."

  Minaya nodded, and moved toward the bar.

  "So hey, I been tellin' all the tales, here, Mikey." Delgado had switched to "Mikey" without prompting after finishing his first tequila.

  Bolan nodded. "Good point there, Danny. Okay, well, see — okay, here's one you just reminded me of. See, there was this one time, I was stationed in Okinawa, and this four-star shows up to give us a talk about — Christ, you know I don't even remember what the hell he was talkin' about."

  "Like I said, Mikey, generals don't know their asses from their elbows."

  "That's for damn sure. Anyhow, after the talk, General What's His Name invites us all to the O-club for a few drinks. You wanna talk about cast-iron livers — man, this guy had platinum. He was drinkin' down Jack Daniel's after Jack Daniel's after Jack Daniel's. And he's a four-star, so none of us can leave till he does, and he wouldn't leave — just kept buyin' round after round." Bolan pointed a finger at Delgado. "And he was like you, Danny, he paid attention. If you didn't keep up, he started yelling." Bolan lowered his voice and affected a Southern accent. "'I've gone drinking with sailors, son, and they are pantywaists who can't hold their goddamn liquor. Are you a sailor, son?'"

  That prompted another guffaw from Delgado. "Yeah, I bet ain't nothin'd make a guy drink up than getting something like that thrown at him."

  "Sure there is," Bolan said. "There's bein' an airedale."

  He continued the story. "I ain't even got to the best part. See, the next morning, we still had to fall in at 0600, and we didn't even get back to the damn barracks until 0500. The general had gotten on a plane back to Hawaii at 0700, and he probably slept it off in the jet. The rest of us, though, had to act like it was a normal day."

  Shaking his head as Minaya came over with the drinks, Delgado said, "I swear to Christ, the generals should just take the enemy drinking. That'd win every war."

  "What, gettin' 'em drunk, or borin' the shit outta them with their stories?"

  "Both!"

  They clanked their glasses at that. Bolan was starting to think that it was time to come up with a way to leave, when the DJ announced the next set of dancers to take the main stage: "The lovely Sheena, the amazing Star and the spectacular Tiffany." The Executioner didn't recognize any of those names, so there was probably a shift change at this hour. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was midnight, so his guess was probably correct.

  At the mention of Star's name, Delgado noticeably brightened. Bolan had a feeling that she was Delgado's current obsession. If so, the excuse to leave was likely to present itself four songs from now.

  * * *

  Erica Mayes, who went under the stage name "Star" at the Hot Keys Club, was putting herself through the Florida Keys Community College with the money she made dancing. Her mother called it "stripping," but Erica had always preferred the euphemism. Besides, she did dance. Sure, she did most of it without her clothes on, but her moves were actual dance steps, and were done to the tune of whatever piece of crap song Omar was playing. Erica was partial to slow jazz, but Miles Davis didn't exactly get the dancers bumping and grinding.

  Erica was twenty-two, with coffee-colored skin, doe-doe-brown eyes, dark hair that she kept short in order to keep it manageable and nice curves to her figure. Most of the dancers were model-thin, but Erica actually owned a pair of hips. Her breasts were small and perky. Many women in her line of work would get surgical enhancements to raise her from a B cup to a D or higher, but Erica had no plans to stay in this line of work for very long.

  Erica's mother had been disgusted when Erica told her what she'd be doing to pay for college. Never mind that she had to pay for it herself, since her mom spent all her money on keeping her bar stocked — which she generally depleted nightly. A short, pale, well-built white woman, she'd fallen in love with a large black man, and had gotten pregnant. Erica had never met her father, as he bailed on Mom the m
inute the proverbial rabbit died. She couldn't recall ever seeing her mother sober.

  Her mom always said Erica was too fat, just because she had those hips. It was ridiculous, since her mom weighed three times what Erica did, but rationality and Erica's mother had parted company some time ago. Perhaps that was one of the reasons she'd taken the job at Hot Keys — none of the men there thought she was too fat.

  Lately, though, she hadn't been looking forward to coming to work — not since that Danny guy had started showing up....

  While the rules were strict on the floor and in the back room, Erica knew that some of the other girls would do a little more for the customer in the VIP room if he — or sometimes she — paid enough. Once behind the closed door of that room, the owners left it all up to the individuals' discretion. Nobody was punished for turning down a request in the VIP room. This was good, as Erica was only willing to dance and tease. Even upstairs, she only allowed the minimum touching that was required on the floor and in the back room. Erica had been dating her boyfriend for a year now, and she had promised to be faithful to him. To her mind, any kind of contact with another man that was in any way sexual was going over the line. She loved Xavier, and she wanted to marry him after she was done with school.

  There was, however, one exception to the club's rule: Danny Delgado.

  Erica didn't know the specifics — nor did she care — but if Delgado wanted you in the VIP room, you had to do everything he wanted. It had been made clear to Erica that, if she didn't comply, she'd be out on her ass, and no club in the Keys would take her on.

  So she always did whatever he wanted.

  At the very least, actual sex was out of the question. Delgado had a war wound of some kind, so he was limp-dicked for life. Erica had found that to be a relief.

  At least he was a good tipper. The previous night, Delgado had given her as much as she usually made in a week.

  But she hadn't told Xavier about him. She couldn't bear to.

  So far he'd limited himself to kissing and touching her boobs, but he'd been promising more for a couple of days now.

  This night, someone was with him, besides the two redwoods he always came in with, laughing like they were old buddies. Erica hoped that meant he'd be too busy shooting the shit with that guy and wouldn't take her upstairs. She also feared that he would bring his friend along.

  After the fourth song ended, she left the stage and went to the dressing room to put her bikini back on. She debated staying back there, but she knew damn well that she'd get in big trouble if she didn't go right to Delgado's table.

  So, after securing the bikini top around her breasts and climbing into the bottoms, she screwed a smile onto her face and went to the table by the velvet curtain.

  "How're you and your friend doing?" Erica — or, rather, Star — asked in as solicitous a tone as she could fake.

  "Just fine, Star baby. This is my fellow Marine buddy, Mikey Burns."

  Burns smiled at her and offered a hand. That right there was more polite than ninety percent of the men who came in here. "Pleasure, ma'am," he said.

  Returning the handshake, Star said, "Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Burns." He had a firm grip, she noticed, but didn't overdo it. Very controlled. Given the amount of tequila he'd drunk, that surprised her. Steadiness wasn't a common trait in here among anyone who drank.

  Bolan, seeing his cue, rose from his chair. He'd hooked the bait, now it was time to cast the line. "I should let you and the lovely lady get on with whatever it is you'll be doing."

  Waving his arm up and down, Delgado said, "Nah, that's fine, Mikey. Stick around."

  "Nah, Danny, three's a crowd, know what I'm sayin'? Besides, I know I couldn't hold a candle to you in the charm department." Bolan added a wink for good measure, then reached into his pocket to pull out a piece of paper. Glancing around, he saw a waitress with an empty tray going by. "'Scuse me, ma'am, can I borrow a pen?"

  The waitress, who was wearing a bustier, miniskirt, shoes and nothing else, said, "Sure," and handed him a pen off the tray that was wet from condensation that had dripped off cold glasses and bottles.

  Writing down the number of the disposable cell phone he'd gotten that afternoon, Bolan said, "I'm gonna be in the Keys for at least another week or so. Gimme a call, maybe we can talk some more old times."

  Taking the proffered piece of paper and handing it to Daley without bothering to look at it, Delgado said, "I'll do that, Mikey. You have yourself a good night."

  Nodding, Bolan took his leave. Based on the look on Star's face, he was likely to have a better night than she was.

  5

  When she bought the bungalow, Lola Maxwell had had a state-of-the-art security system installed. There were security cameras all over the place, and any attempt at a break-in would sound an alarm in the sheriff's office on College Road on the other side of the island. Maxwell had enough friends in that department to guarantee a very quick response.

  It was for that reason that she wasn't really concerned about anyone from Kevin Lee's organization breaking into her house. Even if they managed to find out where she lived — unlikely, as the deed to the house actually belonged to Maxwell's long-dead aunt — they wouldn't get far once they got here.

  The alarm had two options: silent and loud. The latter was what she normally used, as its main purpose was to scare off potential break-and-enter perps, which, on this island, mostly consisted of drunken revelers doing something stupid that they'd regret — if they didn't forget — in the morning.

  But ever since she saw McAvoy's dead body in a parking lot on Stock Island, she'd put it in silent mode. If someone broke into her house, she didn't want them to know it, so they'd still be here when one of her deputy buddies showed up.

  The Executioner had come back from his excursion to the strip joint and fallen straight asleep on her couch, smelling of tequila and cigarette smoke. He hadn't said anything about how the night went, which pissed Maxwell off, but there was little she could do about it. Maybe she could use her charm and looks to get him to see reason.

  It had always worked before.

  With Cooper sleeping soundly on the couch, and Faraday off at the Cutter's Wharf, listening to that aging hippie with the acoustic guitar that he liked so much, Maxwell decided to get some shut-eye of her own. Maybe in the morning, she would be able to get some hard information out of her alleged partner.

  After unclipping her Beretta holster and placing it on the nightstand — checking to make sure the safety was on — and kicking off her flip-flops, she reached down and pulled the black tank top over her head, then slid the hot-pink shorts down her legs. Maxwell had never been much for underwear.

  She tossed the tank and shorts into the hamper and then yanked out the second drawer of the dresser to figure out which nightgown to wear.

  The sexy red one? The see-through green one?

  After a moment, she realized that she was trying to find a nightie that would entice Cooper. And she also realized that that was a lost cause.

  With a sigh, she threw the drawer shut and opened the one below it. She rummaged through until she found a red flannel shirt, put it on and buttoned the bottom two buttons, then climbed into her bed, sliding between the cotton sheets.

  Her thoughts roiled with images of McAvoy, Kevin Lee, Cooper and Kenny V — she simply could not fall asleep. She tossed, she turned, she threw the covers off, she pulled the covers back over her, she buttoned her shirt all the way up, she unbuttoned the shirt entirely, she pounded her pillow into submission, she abandoned the pillow — nothing worked.

  Mostly the image she couldn't get out of her mind's eye was that of McAvoy lying on the pavement of the dive-shop parking lot, blood pooled under his leg.

  So she was wide awake when she heard the intruder.

  Instinctively, she reached for her Beretta on the nightstand and hopped out of bed, moving as if to throw the covers off, though they were in fact bunched up on the floor in front of the bed.

&nb
sp; She padded toward her bedroom door, thinking it might've been Cooper. Because the alarm was in silent mode, she wouldn't know if it went off until she went into the living room, where the code box was.

  Just as she reached for the door, she heard a noise to her left, where the door to the half bath was.

  Whirling, she started to aim her Beretta forward, but an elbow collided with her jaw, sending her crashing to the floor, pain exploding in her cheek. She felt a tooth or two loosen.

  Forcing herself to focus, she looked up and saw Jiminez, one of Kevin Lee's enforcers.

  He was staring down at her, and belatedly Maxwell realized that her flannel shirt was unbuttoned, the sides flapped down toward the floor, leaving her entire naked body exposed. Jiminez's face split into a vicious grin that spoke volumes about his intentions with regard to taking advantage of her nudity.

  Jiminez's lust probably saved Maxwell's life, as he wasted precious seconds taking in the view, giving Maxwell a chance to shoot the Beretta, nailing the Cuban right in the gut.

  Blood soaked the white T-shirt Jiminez was wearing — only on Key West would a prowler be wearing a white shirt and blue shorts — and one hand moved to his belly to cover where the bullet had penetrated flesh and the wall of his stomach.

  "You bitch!" Jiminez cried as he reached down with one massive arm to grab Maxwell's gun arm before she could squeeze off another shot.

  Even as he yanked Maxwell to her feet, she realized she should have aimed higher. A gut shot would take forever to be fatal, and until then, the big Cuban would just be pissed off.

  One meaty hand wrapped itself around Lola's neck, the other still at his belly. "You even try liftin' that arm, and I'll rip your head off, bitch."

  She could see the sweat beading on Jiminez's head. Now it was just a waiting game to see who would die first, her or him.