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  Hunsaker moaned, refusing to move, wrapping his fingers around the steering wheel. "Who are you?" he asked through bloody lips.

  Bolan didn't answer, reaching into the depth of the oversize cab to grasp the attorney by the lapels of his blazer. He yanked, spilling the man to the ground.

  Hunsaker glared up at him, the blond hair in wild disarray. "You don't know who you're messing with, guy. I've got protection. You can't get away with this shit with me."

  Dropping the Desert Eagle into target acquisition between the man's eyes, Bolan said, "Do you think your protection is going to do you any good if I pull this trigger? Do you feel protected now?"

  Hunsaker's eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare."

  "This isn't the world you're accustomed to dealing with, Hunsaker," Bolan said. "You don't make deals here and play with lives without being touched. This world we're locked in now was created from the dregs of emotions, the baser instincts of survival and jealousy and greed. Everything in this world spins on the point of a knife, and no one passes through it without shedding blood at one time or another. You've been lucky until now. You've set yourself up nicely in this operation, taking your cut off the top without getting your hands dirty doing any of the actual work. Maybe you viewed what you were doing as being a broker, rationalized so that none of the dirt clung to you while you made your deals between the Colombians and the people you knew in the drug business. To me, you're a pimp. Nothing more. And maybe something less, in light of the way you've prostituted the legal system to make it work for you."

  Hunsaker lifted his hands before him, holding his wrists together. "If you're a cop, you have to take me in."

  The bore of the Magnum never wavered in Bolan's hand. "I'm not a cop, Hunsaker. I'm the kind of justice you can't buy off or intimidate or simply escape from through legal loopholes. We're living in the world you chose to operate in, and you don't find loopholes here. Justice in this world is retribution, and to even survive against the odds, that justice has to be unswerving and disciplined, unanswerable to anyone."

  "You're crazy."

  Bolan shook his head and sighed. "Get up."

  Hunsaker started to stand.

  Bolan tapped the attorney painfully on the head. "Hands behind your neck."

  Hunsaker complied, and all the while he kept staring at the pistol. Perspiration streamed down his face, but he didn't seem to notice.

  "Let's go."

  "Where?"

  "Back to the beach house."

  "Why?"

  Bolan gave the man a grim smile. "To cut a deal, Hunsaker. That's what you're waiting for, isn't it?"

  The attorney relaxed a little, his shoulders hanging pensively as if afraid he was being tricked. "I thought there weren't going to be any deals."

  "You've organized a big operation here, Ronny, and I aim to dismantle it to the point that it can't be started up again so readily. I figure you're about the best man available to help me with the job. You're the kind of guy who would keep notes on the deals he's made and who he's made them with. As insurance. I want to see what your bottom-line net worth is. Then we can negotiate."

  A hesitant smile flirted with Hunsaker's puffy lips. "I've got plenty of notes, mister, and I'd cut a deal with the Devil himself if I had to."

  "You might have gotten a better offer from him. All he'd have wanted is your soul, and you don't seem to have much use for that. I deal in flesh and blood."

  6

  "Oh, Jesus," Hunsaker said in a whisper-thin voice. He froze in the doorway, staring at the dead body sprawled on the carpet.

  Bolan settled the muzzle of the Desert Eagle between the attorney's shoulders and said, "Move." Following his captive into the beach house living room, he looked searchingly around, making sure the four men he'd taken out accounted for all of the security team Hunsaker had summoned to his defense. Nothing moved under the pall of death that hovered over the room.

  Hunsaker stumbled across the carpet, his eyes focused on the corpse.

  Now that the ebb of action had died away and the tension had been eased out of his system by the walk back to the beach house, Bolan could feel the fatigue chafing at his awareness. He'd accomplished a lot in the last handful of hours, had succeeded in making a bigger strike against the cocaine pipeline than legal resources in the area would have been able to make for weeks and perhaps months. But there was still a lot to be done before he pulled himself out of the perimeter of the forces operating around Miami. He was satisfied the beach house had been built where it was for security as well as privacy. There was small chance of a police or sheriff's department being notified of the disturbance that had taken place.

  The telephone rang again, visibly unsettling the attorney's nerves. His clasped hands behind his neck trembled.

  On the third ring an answering machine picked up the call. "You've called me on my private line," Hunsaker's recorded voice said, "so it had better be damn well important. Make it short. And make it sweet." A beep followed.

  "C'mon, Ronny, pick up the damn phone. You're the one who called in the first place and got me out of bed tonight. I don't need this kind of shit while I'm recovering from this hernia operation." The man's voice paused, waiting expectantly, then hurried on. "You're an asshole, Ronny, you know that? I unloaded the stocks we were talking about, and cut a damn fine deal for you on such a quick turnover, too. You can thank me by sending me a bonus. I've already got the moneys converted, and it'll be waiting for you in that Nassau bank we discussed. Hope this little number you've developed the hots for is worth it." The line clicked dead.

  "Who?" Bolan asked.

  Hunsaker's pasty white face seemed to dissolve into a featureless, uncertain mass.

  Keeping the sharp distaste he felt for the man from his expression, Bolan said, "You cover a lot of corners when you start cutting them, Ronny."

  The attorney smiled nervously, as if unsure how to take the statement.

  "Where's the information you promised me?"

  "I'll have to use the computer on the desk to access my files from home," Hunsaker said.

  "Let's go."

  Hunsaker bit his lip and looked away for a moment, then looked back. "Look, I don't know who you are or why the hell you're even doing this. And I don't want to know. So how do I know you're not scamming me?"

  Bolan didn't reply. His guts churned from having to even deal with the man. And he wouldn't have if the stakes involved didn't warrant it. But if he was going to dismantle the pipeline, he needed the blueprints.

  "It would be real easy for you to tell me that you'll let me go after I give you what you want, then go ahead and pull that trigger."

  Bolan saw the desperation welling up in the man's eyes now, sensed that Hunsaker was hovering close to the breaking point. Death was too much a part of the room now, and he knew the man could see impending violence in every move he made. "You're right," he said as honestly as he could. "It would be very easy to pull the trigger, easier than letting you walk away from here once you get me the information. But that just goes to show you, Ronny, if you even get close to it, the paranoia of the world you've been dealing with will infect you. I won't kill you because I said I won't. My word means something."

  "Not to me, it doesn't."

  Flashing the attorney a shark's grin, Bolan said, "It does now, counselor, because it's the only thing that's keeping you alive at the moment."

  "I have money. A lot of it. Can't we make some kind of deal?"

  "We are making a deal."

  Hunsaker pointed at the recording machine. "My broker was talking about a lot of money just now, and it can be yours if you say the word."

  "Meaning you would find me more believable if you could find the smallest amount of corruption in me? Isn't that contradictory?"

  Hunsaker licked his lips and looked torn between loyalties.

  "I'm offering you the only deal you're going to get, Hunsaker," Bolan said in a graveyard voice. "And you're not going to get anywhere by wasting m
y time. I'm on a tight schedule, and that little jaunt through the forest ate up a lot of minutes."

  "I'll need to put my hands down to operate the keyboard."

  "As long as you do it slowly, we won't have any problems."

  Hunsaker nodded and seated himself behind the desk.

  Bolan watched him closely, keeping the Desert Eagle within easy sight of the man.

  Lifting the phone, the attorney settled it on a modem, then flicked the keyboard and monitor to quiet green life. The tapping of the keys sounded hollow and loud in the room.

  Bolan could still smell the scent of cordite in the air as images of the carnage around him swirled in his memory indelibly. How many hardsites had he fought his way through in his wars against the Mafia and the terrorists? He couldn't begin to imagine the number. And no matter what, it never became truly comfortable. War was a skill, and being a warrior was a profession, though it seemed less honorable in modern times than it had been centuries ago.

  He stared into the depths of the emerald screen over Hunsaker's shoulder, gleaning information from the lines that continually scrolled upward. Many of the names were familiar; some he'd turned up since arriving in Miami, and others he'd come down armed with.

  "Satisfied?" the attorney asked.

  "Yeah. As soon as I get a printout."

  Hunsaker made a couple of entries on the keyboard, and the printer at the side of the desk began clattering in quick response.

  "Now can I get out of here?" Hunsaker asked.

  "After we talk," Bolan replied.

  "About what? Everything you want to know is on here, including deals that I set up to take place weeks from now. You've even got the names of the contacts I developed in Bogota, if it will do you any good."

  "It will."

  Hunsaker looked as if he clearly didn't believe him but didn't care to dispute the statement.

  Bolan didn't enlighten the man. "Tell me about the Death's Enforcers."

  "I don't know much."

  "Let me be the judge of that."

  Hunsaker wiped a sleeve nervously along his mouth. "They're a biker gang from Toronto. They set up a deal with Duncan."

  "How much product was involved?"

  "Almost ten million dollars' worth."

  "How did you get involved with bikers from Toronto, Ronny? Until lately you've only been handling the local business and letting others take care of the transportation risks."

  Hunsaker looked as though he was searching for a rock to crawl under.

  The printer clattered away. "Clock's ticking, counselor," Bolan prodded in a quiet voice.

  Hunsaker swallowed hard, eyes focusing briefly on the muzzle of the .44, then shifting back to Bolan. The Executioner kept his own features as immobile and unforgiving as the barrel of the Desert Eagle.

  "It was family action from Toronto," he said in defeated tones.

  "What family?"

  "Jesus, do you know what you're asking? It's one thing to roll over on the lowlifes I've been working through and the Colombians, who don't have much reach outside Florida, but you're talking about people who can have you hit anywhere in the United States."

  Bolan remained silent, wearing the man down with an icy stare. Hunsaker gritted his teeth and let his breath hiss out. "It was the Corsini Family. They're setting up a deal with some heavy internationals in Toronto and needed a big score to open negotiations. A biker captain set up the deal through the local chapter of Outlaws and passed it on to Duncan. Jesus, is that what this is all about? Did someone tumble to the deal because of the Canadian angle? I told Duncan it sounded too good, that things would be too spread out to cover effectively, but he wouldn't listen. He just kept on saying how much…"

  "Duncan's dead," Bolan reminded the attorney, shifting the pistol to bring the man's eyes back on a line with it.

  "Yeah. I know."

  "So you don't know what the Death's Enforcers members were going to do with the cocaine?"

  "Duncan knew something about it. At least he pretended as though he did to me. Said something about the biker captain being considered for membership in the Corsini Family and needing to square the deal to make his bones."

  As the printer fell silent, Bolan turned that over in his mind, poking at the thought tentatively. Promotion from a Mafia-sponsored biker gang happened rarely. And only then to individuals who proved able and competent, and willing to drop the rough image of the biker for the flashy life-style the Mafia demanded of its elite members. The memory of Special Agent Piper Silverman of the DEA jarred into his thoughts with a suddenness that almost distracted him. He saw the pain of the fear of discovery etched into her face as he helped her turn the dead biker over. A thin thread of logic spun itself into a complex web of possibilities as he confronted the new information and matched it against the questions that had surfaced at the marina.

  "Who were the internationals?" Bolan asked.

  "I don't know. It wasn't important. The only thing Duncan was interested in was whether the bikers could come up with the cash."

  "Did they?"

  "I don't know. Duncan was working that deal tonight, when the cops took the Swift Tiger."

  "What names did Duncan mention?"

  "I think the Death's Enforcers leader's name was Thornton but I'm not sure. Duncan handled his own deals after fronting me a percentage of the cash involved. If he burned, he was to burn on his own and he knew that."

  What other stakes were involved in the game that had been played out at the marina? Bolan ran it through his mind again, convinced that more than just the takedown of Duncan had been involved. It had been a suck. From start to finish. But how many different ways was the suck supposed to work, and how many different ways had it failed? Cops were dead. A biker was dead. The prime catch on the dealers' side was dead by the Executioner's own hand. His mind flashed a vivid image of the female agent's face again. Somewhere in the chaos of crime and crime busters on the scene was someone Silverman had feared for.

  "You're not going to let me go, are you?" Hunsaker asked.

  "Letting you go wasn't part of the deal," Bolan said as he walked around the printer stand to take up the printed sheets. "The deal was that you would live."

  "You call going to prison letting me live?" Exasperation and fear fought for control of the attorney's face. "How the hell do you expect me to live with the animals that are locked up in those cages?"

  "Maybe you can cut deals inside those concrete walls, counselor. You've certainly learned how to deal with the people you'll be sharing cells with. Of course, it's going to be different now that you don't have the upper hand and can't wave their futures before them like you held a controlling interest." Bolan placed the .44 aside as he pulled the paper from the printer. "Shut down the computer and let's go."

  "You said you weren't a cop."

  "I'm not, but that doesn't mean I can't turn you in."

  "This is crazy. We had a deal."

  "And I mean to keep it." Feeling wearied by the whine in the man's voice, Bolan folded the perforated sheets, skimming across the information contained in the neatly printed lines.

  Without warning, Hunsaker kicked out, knocking the printer stand over, and leaped from his chair.

  Bolan grabbed the man's blazer, then felt it skate freely through his fingertips as the heavy equipment collided painfully against his shins. He cleared the printer and stand out of his way, reaching for the Desert Eagle.

  The attorney skidded across the desk and made a rolling dive for the MAC-10 in the dead man's hands. He brought it up already firing. A ragged line of bullets tore holes in the ceiling, pouring sheetrock dust down in streaming spirals.

  Bolan fired from the waist as the autofire raked toward him. The powerful and deadly projectile caught Hunsaker in the upper chest and flung him backward.

  Trying to speak, Hunsaker reached for the MAC-10 again, then died even as his fingers brushed against it.

  Bolan gathered up the scattered papers, giving the attorne
y's body a final glance. He felt better about the closing argument the prosecution had been forced into than he would have if he'd turned the man over to local authorities. Maybe the families of the slain policemen who'd given their lives to close down Hunsaker's creation would sleep better when they found out how things had ended here in the beach house.

  But had they really ended?

  He made his way out of the dwelling, focusing his thoughts on the vague connections he'd turned up at the marina.

  He tucked the printout inside the blacksuit as he faded into the palm trees and became part of the oppressive silence dominating the killground.

  Part of the product Hunsaker had moved onto the scene was still freewheeling back toward Toronto. Grimly he faced the fact that he wasn't ready to let it go yet, not until he came to a more comprehensive overview. Gaining access to the information the DEA was privy to wouldn't be easy. But he felt confident the information he'd taken from Hunsaker would be enough of an ante to buy him a stake in the pot as the hand played out.

  And he planned on figuring out at least some of the cards his opponents held in their hands before sitting in.

  * * *

  Drizzling rain streaked the phone booth windows as Bolan waited for the connection to be made. He shivered against the night chill, wishing he had time for breakfast, a shave, a bath and bed. In that order. But things were breaking too fast, and he was playing catch-up. The Death's Enforcers members could be anywhere within a two-hundred-mile radius by now and still moving. That is, assuming they didn't try to make an aerial jaunt anytime soon.

  "Hello?" Hal Brognola's voice sounded thick with the need for sleep.

  Bolan grinned, feeling relaxed with the proximity he felt over the phone line to the head Fed. His connection with the government was an arm's-length alliance that functioned solely on a need-to-know basis. He was still considered a lone wolf by those who knew that he accepted operations of mutual interest through the Justice Department from time to time — a lone wolf with sporadic, temporary amnesty. In his chosen struggle the warrior had found true friendships, then found he had precious little time to pursue them. Even when he had time with close people like Brognola, impending disaster usually threw a shadow over the more human instincts that wanted to show. "Striker here. Can we talk?"