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  "Vos must want you pretty bad."

  Aguire smiled. "Enough to make you rich if you deliver me."

  "No sale."

  "Few men would hesitate to name their price."

  "Vos can't afford me."

  "He's a very wealthy man."

  "He's scum. I make a point to never work for scum."

  "A man of principle?"

  "They're not extinct."

  "It's curious. I've spent the best part of my life corrupting other men, and now I must depend on two who cannot be corrupted. That's ironic, don't you think?"

  "Poetic justice."

  "I do not believe in justice."

  "But you still intend to testify?"

  "It is a matter of survival, Mr. Blanski."

  "So is justice, in the long run."

  "Call it vengeance, then. I know that Vos will kill me, soon. Pratt tells me otherwise, but he is only bribing me with words, pretending he believes I have a chance. If I must die, I mean to take Vos with me."

  "He won't burn," the Executioner replied. "The federal government has no death penalty for dealers, and appeals would tie it up for years, regardless."

  "He will rot in prison. Lose his palace and his women, cars and money. That is death enough."

  "You really hate this guy."

  "There was a time," Aguire said, "when I could tell you that I loved him like a father. Now, I do what I must do."

  And Bolan followed that just fine.

  In fact he knew the tune by heart.

  8

  Christ, it never failed.

  The office bell was clanging for attention, interrupting one more rerun of The Rockford Files. And just when Jimbo was about to solve the mystery, goddammit.

  Justin Harris set his rum and Coke aside, muting the television with his remote control as he rose from his favorite chair. After twenty years in the business, he was still looking forward to getting through one evening — one program — without interruptions. It was half past eight, and anybody looking for a room should have found one by now. But that didn't stop the stragglers from interrupting his evenings. Inconsiderate bastards.

  Harris didn't own the Cajun Cottage Motor Inn. That honor was reserved for a consortium of lawyers in New Orleans, but they kept him on to manage things and keep the place in shape. They trusted him to give a square report on revenue, and if the place lost money, no one bitched about it. Justin figured they'd found themselves a tax write-off, but who was he to blow the whistle, when he had himself a goddamned sinecure? As long as things weren't too far in the red, he'd be living free and drawing pay besides.

  Still, he would have liked to watch TV in peace, just once.

  It was a night for men alone, and Harris wondered if the Cajun Cottage Motor Inn was turning into some damned faggot's rendezvous. First three men checking in to six and thirteen, specifying that they needed space between the rooms. That was fine with Harris, since the place was half-empty. Next two rednecks came along together, and while Justin didn't think they looked like sissies, you could never really tell these days. Some pansies didn't swish the way they used to; they were into chains and leather, all that kind of shit.

  Four men were waiting for him, lined up and scowling at the counter. Harris wished that he'd turned on the damned NO VACANCY sign, but it was too late now. He'd be forced to deal with them, and that was the end of it, by God. The sign was going on as soon as Justin had their greenbacks in his hand.

  "Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

  He always asked the same thing, as if it weren't obvious.

  "You run this place?"

  "That's right." A stupid question, Harris thought, but if you took all four of them and mashed their brains together, you would still be several ounces short of average smarts. "You boys must need a room."

  "We need some information," said the tall one in the middle, resting big hands on the countertop.

  "Information?"

  "On a couple of your customers."

  Justin felt a worm of fear begin to wriggle down his spine. "Well, I don't know…"

  "We're interested in who checked into number six and number thirteen a while back."

  "You guys the police, or what?"

  The tall man reached inside his jacket and withdrew an Ingram, sticking the muzzle between Justin's eyes.

  "I guess we'd be 'or what, " he answered. "Now, about that information…"

  "Numbers six and thirteen, right. Just tell me what you need to know."

  "The names, for starters."

  "Let me check the registration card." He bent to reach beneath the desk, and three more guys drew a bead on him. He felt a sheen of perspiration on his brow, despite the air-conditioning. "You want the name, I'll have to check the card," he told them. "I don't pay that much attention to the customers."

  "Go on," the tall man said, "but don't start thinking you're a hero."

  "No, sir. That ain't likely."

  He retrieved the daily registration cards and shuffled through them. "J. B. Green and party's all it says. Sounds colorful." He tried a grin, but the intruders weren't buying it.

  "Which room's the doubt?"

  "Haven't got a clue," he told them honestly. "I didn't watch them when they stowed their bags. I couldn't tell you who went where."

  "If you lie to me, old man, I'll punch your ticket."

  "Thought you might. That's why I'm being straight. I told you. I don't pay attention to the customers."

  The man studied Justin's face for several seconds, finally making up his mind. "All right. Stay here, Rick. Watch this guy, and waste him if he tries to get away or use the phone."

  "You got it, Jase."

  Justin Harris knew that he was in deep trouble, then, because they didn't mind him hearing names. That meant they planned to kill him, either way. The old man felt the short hairs rising on his neck. He was about to miss a whole lot more than the last few minutes on The Rockford Files.

  * * *

  Arnie Norris was prepared when Jason Meyers knocked on the door of number nine. He killed the television and slipped his Colt Commander inside its holster. The cyclops stepped inside without a word of invitation, studying the layout of the room as if it held great interest for him.

  "You boys ready?"

  "As we'll ever be."

  Meyers frowned. "Are all these rooms the same inside?"

  "I guess so," Arnie replied. "I've only been in this one."

  "Mmm." The cyclops didn't seem to like his manner. "Well, we'll have to go in blind. It can't be helped. You're packing?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Come with me."

  He followed Meyers across the parking lot, in the direction of the office, leaving Claude to shut the door and catch up on his own. It suddenly hit Arnie that they hadn't wiped the place for fingerprints. He was about to mention it to Meyers, but kept his mouth shut. He'd been arrested only once — for public drunkenness, in George West, Texas — and he doubted whether anyone would trace his prints from that occasion, some four years ago. In any case, once he got paid, he planned to scrutinize his other options, maybe try a brand-new name on for size.

  Six men were waiting at the cars, all armed, and Norris did a little quick arithmetic to figure out how his percentage of the cash would be reduced by splitting it nine ways. If they were even splits, that still left better than a hundred thousand dollars, but he still had one more ace to play.

  He started talking fast, before the cyclops had a chance to speak. "We checked things out," he told the other members of the hit team. "I figure we can split it down the middle, and…"

  "Who died and made you king?" Meyers snapped.

  "I only thought…"

  "That was your first mistake," the cyclops growled, and Arnie heard Claude chuckling behind him.

  "I didn't mean…"

  "We'll split it down the middle," Jason said, ignoring him. "That way we ought to have them covered. We'll synchronize and blow both doors together,
go in shooting, wasting anything that moves. The rooms are simple." As he spoke, the cyclops traced a squat rectangle on the Chevy's hood, using his index finger as a pointer. "Main room here, with beds on left or right, depending on the door's location. Bathroom just behind, a straight shot from the door. The only snag's if someone's in the shower. He'll be out of sight at first. We'll have to go inside and check."

  "Be funny if we caught one of them on the crapper," someone said, and laughter rippled through the group.

  Disgruntled by his own humiliation, Arnie Norris wondered who this «we» that Jason talked about might be. He'd have bet his life that the cyclops planned to hang well back and let his gunners do the fighting for him.

  "Everybody set?"

  There was a general flourishing of shotguns, carbine and automatic weapons. Arnie drew his.45 and wished that he'd brought the 12-gauge, anything at all to seem a little more impressive. As it was, he had the feeling of a younger sibling who had to stand to the side and watch while the big boys played their games.

  Well, he'd have to show them, that was all. If Jason thought that he would dump on Arnie Norris, then he'd have to think again. Yes, sir, he might be in for a surprise at that.

  "Let's do it, then," Jason said. "We haven't got all night."

  * * *

  The Coke and ice machine were tucked between rooms ten and eleven, secluded in a special alcove. The overhead lights had burned out long ago, but the vending machine provided sufficient illumination for Johnny to count his pocket change, confirming that he had enough to purchase two Coke Classics and a can of root beer. On top of the ice machine beside him, Johnny's plastic bucket brimmed with half-inch cubes.

  He had the Cokes lined up and was about to feed the vendor one more time, when his attention was distracted by the sound of new arrivals in the parking lot. He poked his head around the corner, thankful now for the alcove's darkness, and watched two dark sedans pull up outside the office. Dome lights flared, and Johnny counted eight rough-looking men before the doors were closed. Two passengers got out of each car and headed toward the office, disappearing from his line of vision.

  And he had counted more than heads in those brief seconds. Rifles, shotguns — Johnny couldn't tell, but he'd seen two barrels carelessly displayed inside the second car. Knowing that seasoned hunters wouldn't travel with their guns exposed that way, he drew the only logical conclusion. He cursed as he gauged the distance back to room thirteen — no more than fifty feet, but it was lighted all the way. Johnny pocketed his change and palmed his Beretta, thumbing back the hammer as he saw three men emerging from the office. Leaving one behind could only mean that the manager was under guard, and there would be no phone calls to the police before the shooting started.

  Seven men were on their feet now, clustering around the cars. One guy detached from the group, approaching Johnny's hideout with determined strides. The younger Bolan ducked back out of sight, prepared to fire if anyone intruded on the alcove. But the new arrival hammered on a door to Johnny's right, not close enough to make it number ten. He made it eight or nine, and listened as the door was opened, closed again. The process was repeated moments later, and he risked another glance around the corner, watching three men join the others near the office.

  Cursing underneath his breath, Johnny realized that they had been under surveillance for hours, possibly since moments after they arrived. He had no time for puzzling the mechanics of it all; they had been traced, and «how» would have to wait for later. If there was a later. At the moment he was concentrating on survival, wondering how he could warn his brother and Aguire, short of dying in the process.

  Johnny shifted the Beretta to his left hand, wiped a sweaty palm against his jeans and shifted back again. The gunners were discussing strategy. He couldn't overhear their words, but it made little difference. If the manager had spilled his guts — and Johnny took it for granted that he would — the gunners knew their two rooms.

  The nine men moved as one, and Johnny watched as four broke off in the direction of room six. As the others drew near his position, he stepped back into the shadows. So far they were following the game plan, but his brother and Aguire had no way of knowing it was almost kickoff time.

  Five men trooped past the alcove, weapons at the ready. Johnny glimpsed an Ingram and a pair of stubby shotguns as they passed. They carried ample hardware for the job, and Mack would never know what hit him if they opened up without a warning.

  Johnny left the shadows, edging forward, index finger taut on the Beretta's trigger. He risked another glance in each direction, saw the gunmen lining up like firing squads outside each room. He raised his pistol, sighting down the slide, and chose his target, guaranteed of one clean shot before all hell broke loose.

  "Show time," he muttered.

  And squeezed the trigger twice.

  * * *

  Mack Bolan finished doling out the chicken onto paper plates and reached for the container of potato salad. Unaware of hunger while they'd driven through Mississippi and Louisiana, he was suddenly ravenous, the aroma of chicken and warm biscuits making his mouth water. Seated on the nearby bed, Aguire also eyed the food with interest, but made no move to serve himself.

  "Dig in," the Executioner advised. "It's getting cold. The drinks will be here in a minute."

  Carlos chose a drumstick, studied it, then addressed a question to his guardian. "Why are you doing this?"

  "I'm hungry," Bolan answered.

  "No, I mean the escort. Surely you must recognize the danger."

  "We're okay so far."

  "I know the government," Aguire pressed. "They can't be paying you enough."

  "The fact is," Bolan told him, "they're not paying anything."

  "You volunteered for this?"

  "Let's say I was available."

  "And Mr. Green?"

  "Him, too."

  "In my world, men who risk their lives expect rewards."

  "I get my share. Cash doesn't enter into it."

  "You are — how do you say it — an altruist?"

  "I wouldn't qualify. A soldier does his duty."

  "Some decide to serve themselves."

  "Your chicken's getting cold."

  Bolan didn't like the conversation's drift and sought to cut if off. Explaining motive to Aguire, things like duty and responsibility, struck the warrior as a waste of time. They came from different worlds, as Carlos had remarked, without a common frame of reference.

  In Aguire's world, a man was judged by what he owned, the money in his pocket and the measure of respect he could command through fear. A job well done involved corruption, murder, poisoning the youth of his adopted country, leading them to ruin in the name of profit. To Aguire, his mistake was getting caught by agents of the DEA. The larger issues simply didn't register. He had no more in common with the Executioner than Bolan had in common with the Queen of England.

  But at another level, Bolan knew, their worlds were much the same. Both lived with treachery and death from day to day, uncertain whom they could and couldn't trust. In Bolan's case, the list of friends had been dramatically reduced by trial and error, whittled by attrition in the midst of everlasting war. Aguire, for his part, had been completely isolated. At the moment, he could claim no friends at all.

  The Executioner was momentarily distracted by a nagging thought. His brother had been gone far longer than he thought a trip for ice and soda should require. The kid was capable of looking out for number one, and there'd been no sounds of struggle, but he heard the first, faint clamor of alarm bells in his mind.

  Too long. If anything had happened…

  At the sound of pistol shots, he threw himself across the intervening space and caught Aguire in a flying tackle, toppling the witness backward, both men plunging into empty space between the double beds. Aguire spluttered underneath him, cursing, but his voice was drowned by heavy metal thunder as the windows shattered, under a blast of automatic fire.

  Aguire fought to cat
ch his breath as bullets raked the walls above his head, dislodging artwork, spewing plaster dust from countless holes. He heard a muffled scream next door, a woman's voice, and tried to wriggle underneath the nearest bed as Bolan rolled away from him, a pistol now filling his hand.

  There was no room beneath the bed, although one arm and leg fit well enough before Aguire's chest and rib cage jammed the narrow space. He visualized his death, policemen standing over him in tailored uniforms and inexpensive suits, bland faces creased by gloating smiles. It would be obvious that he had tried to hide like some pathetic gigolo, his death diminished by an act of cowardice. The bastards would be laughing at him when the morgue attendants zipped him up inside a rubber bag and carried him away.

  Enough!

  He rolled clear of the bed, dust trailing from his sleeve and trouser leg in streamers. Aguire wasn't rash enough to stand, but from his new position he could see his guardian slithering across the floor in the direction of a duffel bag that occupied a nearby chair. He reached it, scuttled backward with his prize and nearly had it open when the door crashed open. Two men surged across the threshold, submachine guns blazing.

  Bolan raised his pistol in a single fluid motion, squeezing off a 3-round burst that pinned one gunner to the wall and sent his comrade staggering for cover. Dipping back inside the duffel bag, the warrior hauled an Uzi machine pistol clear and snapped the bolt back, chambering a round as he moved to greet the rest of the attack force.

  Outside, the firing faltered for an instant, then resumed, but in the lull Aguire knew he heard more weapons, at a greater distance, firing to the crisp accompaniment of breaking glass. Their other room was under siege as well, and they would doubtless have been killed if all the gunmen had been massed outside their windows, firing simultaneously.

  Bolan fired a burst through the shattered window, whipping tattered curtains in a new direction. Fewer weapons answered this time, but one was firing through the open door, a shotgun spraying buckshot into walls and furniture. One blast dispensed with Colonel Saunder's, riddling the cardboard chicken bucket and blowing it away. A ventilation wing glanced off Aguire's shoulder.