Poison Justice Page 7

  Marelli wandered to the edge of the tree line and stopped. With a long look over his shoulder, he listened to the dawn racket of birds swarming overhead. He considered checking the clip, but knew there was no time to pop out rounds for a tally. Call it thirteen to fifteen shots, and he’d make every one of them count.

  He looked across the clearing, figured a twenty-yard dash to the other side before he could slip into still more dense forest. Keep going, he told himself, luck had to be on his side or he wouldn’t have made it this far.

  Another hard search to calm his fear, he was about to move out when the bile shot like a flaming sword inside his chest. Gagging, he dropped to one knee, choking back the slime, cursing himself to pull it together, keep quiet. A few moments later, the sickness faded. Hand braced on a tree, he was rising when he felt cold metal dig into the base of his skull. He froze.

  “At this very moment, I’m your only shot at salvation.”

  Marelli thought he should have recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it, only knew it didn’t belong to any of the marshals. His gut warned him that whoever the phantom was, this voice from the bottom of a tomb was giving him a choice, but would just as soon kill him as save him.

  THE MAN’S WOUNDS were still pumping blood, which meant the killer was very close.

  “Son of a bitch,” Peary muttered.

  “I’m thinking that’s not the work of our boy,” Jenkins said.

  “How the hell would you know?” Peary growled.

  “Because the gun he took when he ran from the kitchen didn’t have a sound suppressor,” Jenkins answered. “We would have heard this hit.”

  Peary realized Jenkins was right and didn’t like what that meant. “So, we’ve got company.”

  “Cabriano or some of his goons?” Markinson wanted to know.

  “Or the spooks maybe.”

  “Then I’m thinking,” Jenkins said, “neither one of them wants to pay us off—unless it’s like Grevey.”

  “Spread out. And don’t panic,” Peary said, moving away from the body, fearing it like there was some deadly virus he could catch.

  Whoever Grevey’s killer was, Peary knew it was all going to hell. But if they—whichever side—wanted them all dead why stop with Grevey? Was it a message? Telling them the price for failure was execution? Then why the games? Why not just charge out of the woods, or cut them down from the dark? Which side? How many? Dammit, none of it seemed right, they wouldn’t be in this mess if Grevey had been on his toes.

  Stow it. It was time to save the game, and his life.

  Peary sensed they weren’t alone, certain invisible eyes were watching. He cursed Grevey for letting Marelli get away in the first place. The SOB got what he deserved.

  He thought he heard movement from behind, his heart lurching as he pictured what he’d just left, the Mossberg heavy and slippery in sweaty palms. He was spinning for his six when the silence was split by the chatter of autofire.

  Peary heard shouting and glimpsed Markinson and Jenkins firing their weapons. One after the other they toppled in the periphery of green shimmer, weapons flying, arms flapping. He triggered the riot gun, bolting to his side, the thunderous retort piercing his ears. A warning cry in his head then told him he’d missed cutting down their attacker. In the next heartbeat Peary was certain of it, as he felt hot bullets tear through his flesh.

  “WHERE THE HELL are you going? What kinda trouble you got yourself in now, Petey, huh? Hey, goddammit! You listening to me? This is still my place, I don’t care if you paid for it or not! Bust in here, wake me up out of a dead sleep after your little hit-and-run, which wasn’t all that great, case you were wonderin’, but that’s pretty much been your speed and style lately. And I don’t appreciate you bringin’ your goombahs in my home either, packin’ heat for God and the whole world to see, neighbors spreading gossip, the big Mob boss’s little whore on the side, look at her, what a fool is she! Plus your goombahs are stinkin’ up my home with their booze and cigar fumes! Hey! I’m talking to you, big shot!”

  Already flying across the living room, Cabriano gnashed his teeth as he shouldered past her, barreled into the bedroom and beelined for the closet, through explaining himself. He didn’t have time for her crap, but she flew up his back, as he knew she would, a whirlwind of contention and cursing. He thought about his .45, pictured a quick delve inside his coat…

  No.

  Not with all the trouble falling on his head, disaster stalking him all over Brooklyn and beyond. One guy, it looked, was kicking his ass and taking names and his—and the cartel’s—money. Cabriano let the volcano just rumble in his gut. For once he needed to be smart instead of impulsive. Frankie The Tube had confirmed the hit at the lot, but Cabriano could live with the loss of two more soldiers. What the hell was going on anyway? Who was behind wreaking all this havoc? Colombians? Spooks? The Feds? It was insane, all this trouble and terror, and when he was about to turn the corner, expand the empire, conquer the frigging world. Why now? Goddammit, why at all? Trust no one, damn straight. He was going hunting for answers, and heads.

  The running was over.

  Attempting to drown out her shrill voice, he seethed over the image of the Fireball up in flames, a vision of his own world going up in smoke. An army of cops and firemen were right there at the bonfire, dirty rotten rat SOBs standing around, like they were ready to break out the hot dogs and marshmallows. From a safe distance he recalled how he watched them sipping coffee, smoking, a couple of them chuckling at the sight of his club burning to the ground. There were a few assholes in shields back there who were always in the Fireball, hitting on the girls, cheap scumbags who wanted to hang out all night, on his tab, like they were owed something to keep deaf, dumb and blind. Cabriano had been tempted to storm into their ranks and rail until kingdom come, but common sense took its grip. He needed to bail the city. The last thing he wanted was cops detaining him, his lawyers crying for days on end about billable hours, just to free him on bail from any list of charges, contrived or not. Right then, a slew of dire scenarios—growing by the minute—demanded a hands-on approach. He’d start in the Catskills, since if he wanted something done it looked like he had to do it himself.

  He was opening the safe when Pauline cranked the screeching up another notch.

  “What the fuck are you doin’! You takin’ my money, I swear to…”

  Enough.

  Quickly he stuffed the small nylon bag with two hundred grand. There was more cash at his house, but, as bad as this nonsense was, he’d never escape the clutches of his own wife, not without firing a shot in anger. If, by chance, he needed more grease or walking around money he could call the casino, but that was assuming the Feds hadn’t already shut it down.

  He stood, turned and stared into the eye of the storm. She had to have read the look, sensed the cold deadly vibes. Pauline fell as quiet and still as he could ever recall.

  “Do…not…say…another word.”

  She didn’t, until Cabriano brushed past her.

  He was in the living room, heading for his lieutenants, both men quickly looking away, as if they wished they could disappear through the floor.

  “Don’t come back!”

  Cabriano had a response ready on the tip of his tongue, but his problems were far graver than any irate hit-and-run mistress. A few moments later, he discovered still more grief waiting in the alley beside her—his—brownstone. He looked past Frankie’s crew of six, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of the three Towncars rolling his way. Cursing, he told his men to stand at ease, spotting a few hands inching for shouldered hardware.

  The Towncars braked, single file, then doors opened to disgorge the Colombians.

  Cabriano looked at the small, swarthy figure, watching, heart pounding, as José Hildago slipped between his gunmen.

  “What’s this?” Cabriano rasped. “You followin’ me?”

  Hildago bared a grin the Don pictured more on a hyena than anything human. “It would appear
you are having some problems tonight, Señor Cabriano.”

  “It’s under control.”

  “Is it now?”

  “Listen, you and me, we’ll talk later. I’ve got someplace to be—”

  “Not so fast.”

  Cabriano broke stride, enraged as he found the Colombians spreading out, ready to go for broke as several of them draped the tails of leather trench coats over the butts of large handguns holstered on their hips.

  Cabriano felt the bite of his own raw nerves as he laughed. “What the—I don’t see this macho shit doin’ much good for our future together, José. I got enough problems already.”

  “Yes. I know something of the nature of your problems.” The smile broadened, Hildago spreading his arms. “That is why I am here to help.”

  ONLY THE BIG CATS were blessed with natural night vision. There were, however, the other senses, the nose and ears capable of picking up the slack when sight was almost nonexistent. There was also instinct and cunning, then a sensory web, his own honed, of course, from vast lethal experience of stalking human prey in the dark, in the densest forests and jungles on the planet. The enemy, he quickly discovered, shared none of these traits and skills, and it ended up killing them. In fact, their noisy bungle through the forest, combined with the smell of fear, the taint of panic in the air, and finally the worst of all unpardonable transgressions—running their mouths—led Bolan right to them. Call it instinct, common sense, good prior recon, a little help from the gods of war or a combo of all, but the Executioner found Marelli and the traitor four as if they shone beacons in the dawn. The shuffling sack of human misery that had been Grevey was the first to go. After that, the soldier could have nailed it down, but a whiff of Marelli’s aftershave downwind put the task off until The Butcher was cuffed and quietly told the facts of life.

  The Executioner walked up on Peary, M-16 aimed at the ASAC’s spine as he crabbed for the combat shotgun, grunting and cursing. Bolan spit a fleck of bark off his lip where the traitor had blown off a hunk of tree with the Mossberg, inches from his face, throwing off the M-16’s aim enough to spare the traitor a quick end.

  Peary craned his head around, hesitated. “You? Son of a—Listen to me, Cooper. We get Marelli, there’s money in it for you, lots of money. You can take half the cut from the others.”

  “I already have Marelli. What I need from you are answers.”

  Peary turned defiant. “Or what?”

  “You’re dead.”

  Whatever hope the man clung to faded as Bolan read the savage coming to life in his eyes. Peary was poised to scramble the final yard to the shotgun.

  There was a time, not long ago, when Bolan wouldn’t kill a lawman, no matter how dirty. But times changed, and the world, it seemed in certain quarters, had become a meaner, nastier, greedier, more vindictive place. Evil could just as easily walk behind a badge as it could hide anywhere else until it revealed itself. In fact, Bolan held those who were supposed to serve and protect—to defend the law against the lawless—more accountable.

  Peary cursed and lunged. Bolan had no choice but to react. Then the man went still, eyes staring into forever. Quickly Bolan took Peary’s radio and cell phone. He figured at least a few answers waited forty paces or so down the footpath.

  Suddenly the Executioner heard the sound of chopper blades, coming from the north and closing fast. The soldier assumed the slaughter had been discovered again.

  He slipped into deeper cover, opting to use the forest canopy for concealment instead of backtracking on the footpath. The question nagged Bolan: Was friend or foe on the way?

  6

  “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news.”

  John Rollins, assistant director of the Justice Department’s Special Task Force on Organized Crime, grimaced. It was the third time he’d spoken to the electronically altered voice on the other end of his secured cell phone. He hoped it was the last he had to listen to the deep bass voice that sounded more robotic than human. Only he feared the future would soon find a face put to the ghost on the other end. It suddenly occurred to him, as he felt his guts knotting up, that perhaps he had already met the ghost during a clandestine midnight meet. Briefly, he recalled, when summoned over the phone to rendezvous with the cutout, he’d never seen more than a shadow in the night. Could it be that he was…did it matter?

  “I already know what happened,” Rollins snapped. “You didn’t finish the damn job.”

  Rollins was pacing the living room of his Fairfax, Virginia, home. Up all night, tortured by images of all manner of perilous traps set in the path he was trodding, he’d been waiting for the ghost to report, but heard the news first from the director. Whatever phantom fears haunted him during the night, he knew they were howling to life with the new day.

  “How in God’s name…”

  He looked around the empty room, the air locked in his chest, fear and rising panic bringing on the imaginings of ghosts of yesteryear. Not long ago, the big split-level house had felt like a cold giant cave when his wife walked out the door and divorced him. These days, he was grateful for any stretch of solitude he could steal. At present he wished he could hide under his roof until the storm blew past, specters from his own personal hell haunting him or not.

  “Regrettable how it worked out, but it was unavoidable,” Rollins heard the ghost tell him, as he marched into the kitchen, poured his fifth cup of coffee, considered then rejected the idea of spiking it with whiskey. He was overdue for a meeting with the task force director at the Justice Department. The morning news reported a major tie-up, a tractor trailer jackknifed on the interstate. As good an excuse as any, he figured, for keeping the director waiting on his arrival.

  “What the hell happened out there?”

  “We hit him three, maybe four times. What can I say? Man proved himself a tiger. County’s finest showed up out of nowhere. I was forced to extract myself, lest I was forced into some unpleasantness with the police. You must also know I lost a good operator during the exchange. One, unlike some others, who is irreplaceable.”

  If that was an implied threat, Rollins chose to ignore it. “Yet another problem, you leaving his body behind.”

  “My friend, you are apparently just this side of clueless where our tactics and methods are concerned. The police will find no ID. Fingerprints and such will lead them into limbo, simply compounding the mystery. They can dial up the Almighty if they want, but it will be like my man never existed.”

  “You blew it, that’s all I know. Do you know what this—”

  “Silence! Find your balls and listen to me. This is a bed you helped to make, and you will sleep with the whore you chose.”

  Rollins scowled, wanted to read the riot act to the insolent SOB, but knew to some frightening extent his fate belonged in phantom hands.

  “The operation on our end will proceed as scheduled, but there have been certain readjustments. Your infamous hit man witness, for one, has forced us to fine-tune certain measures that were already in place.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Rollins asked, hoping he’d masked his rising panic.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  The ghost chuckled. “Marelli has flown.”

  Rollins felt his knees buckle, his hand trembling, coffee sloshing onto the counter. Strangely enough, he was more angry than surprised. When Peary was late checking in by more than three hours, then wouldn’t answer his calls, Rollins had feared the worst.

  “Now what?”

  “Fear not, ye of little faith,” the ghost told him. “Steps have been taken. Two of our teams are in the area as we speak. One on the ground, one in the air. It’s quite the mess, but everything is still salvageable.”

  “What steps?”

  “You’ll bear with me if I sound as if I’m attempting to impress you, which I have no need to do. But our power knows no bounds, no limits. Truth be told, we are a government within the government, perhaps we are the rea
l government, carte blanche, licensed to…Well, you get the picture.”

  “I hear you talking a big game, but you’re not saying a damn thing to put my mind at ease.”

  “If it’s comfort and ease you desire…”

  “Goddammit, I want to hear how you intend to handle this situation, not tell me how big your balls are!” Rollins shouted.

  A long pause, then the ghost said, “A description of Cooper has already been passed on to all local and state law-enforcement agencies. This includes the FBI and Justice. The murders of four men from the Justice Department will be put on Cooper’s head. If by some miracle he makes it out of New York, suspicion of what happened in Arlington earlier will likewise point his way.”

  Rollins shook his head, wondering how they—no, he—would pull off the whole insane juggling act. Cooper couldn’t have been in two places at once, committing murder in two states hundreds of miles apart. After the short sitrep from the director, though, Rollins understood why the ghost had wanted a copy of Cooper’s file, complete with photo. Months back, when the plan was being engineered, bits and pieces of the bigger picture floated his way, and Rollins had been told to mail Cooper’s jacket to a post-office box in Reno, Nevada. Whoever the spook, Rollins knew he had access to cutting edge technology. Apparently Cooper’s Justice Department credentials had been found at the crime scene in Arlington, doctored by the ghost to pass as authentic. Where it all went next…

  “Are you there?”

  “Now what?”

  “You go to work. Help run the investigation, the hunt for Cooper. Heat will come your way, but you’ve proved yourself capable of covering your tracks. I’m sure you remember Thailand?”

  Rollins felt his stomach turn over, the memory of what led him to stare into the abyss of the present flamed to mind. He shut his eyes, cursing his life.

  Several years back he’d been a field agent for the then-fledgling special task force. The department had been looking for a way to infiltrate the network of crime cartels in Southeast Asia. Rollins had worked hard to get the overseas assignment, seeking to advance his career, but also in search of adventure, sick and tired of monotonous routine. The fear he was going nowhere fast in both professional and personal life had become an obsession. He cajoled, he pleaded, he kissed the right asses to get the dream assignment. Oh, he’d found that something new and different, all right, and there was much dark truth to the cliche of a man being careful what he wished for. Looking back, it was his own beginning of the end, only he had no intention of getting consumed in the firestorm already burning out of control.