Two of them skidded to a halt on the landing when they realized his footsteps could no longer be heard. They looked around. One moved to the door, pulled it open and checked out the parking area beyond, probing with his pistol.

  The guy said something over his shoulder. It was in Russian.

  There was no answer from his partner. The speaker turned, his handgun probing the shadows on the landing.

  “Yorgi…”

  Then he saw his partner curled up on the floor about three feet away. Yorgi was hugging his throat, making low, wet mewling sounds. A spreading black pool, glistening, was edging out from under his head, and the man was barely moving.

  There was a soft rush of sound and the deepest shadow close to him parted and let a shape materialize. The shape took form, a lunging man moving with speed and ease. Something slammed into his face. Pain erupted, sharp and distinctly unpleasant. He didn’t have time to call out as the pain turned into a frightening numbness that engulfed his lower face. He tasted blood, felt the alien sensation of loose teeth driven from his gums, and then he was being pushed back until his lower spine was wedged against the railing that edged the landing. Powerful hands gripped his waist and upper thigh. In his fear and confusion he felt himself being lifted off his feet, tilted over the railing and his flailing hands couldn’t grip anything. He fell into the open space between floors, his body bouncing from side to side as he dropped. Before he struck the floor below he had suffered a broken arm, a shattered hip and his skull was fractured in two places. He was still conscious when he hit the floor, breaking more bones and sending blood spatter across the concrete.

  Bolan was on the move before the guy landed, slamming his boot against the push bar that opened the door leading to the parking garage. The Tanto was back in its sheath, the blade still bloody from slicing across Yorgi’s throat. It was the Beretta’s turn, the muzzle probing ahead of him, to the sides, as he moved toward the ramp. He was not out of danger yet, but this was preferable to being caught between however many gunners were behind him and others who might come at him from the garage ramp.

  Shots sounded, slugs blasting powdered concrete from the side walls. Bolan kept moving until he could see the darting shapes flitting in and out of the crisscrossed shadows. He rounded the curve in the ramp, saw an armed guy scrambling over the adjoining wall to get a clear shot. The guy had allowed his gun hand to stray off-line as he made the jump. Bolan paused, bringing up the 93-R. He triggered a triburst and saw the guy lose balance and drop.

  Ahead of Bolan two more armed figures came charging up the ramp, weapons firing, the autofire falling short. They hadn’t compensated for the angle of the slope, or for the fact that they were on the move, arms jerking erratically. Bolan gave them no chance to correct the error. He held the Beretta in a two-handed grip and tracked his targets, putting them down with three-round bursts. As he walked on, passing the sprawled figures, they were bleeding out over the scuffed, oily concrete.

  Bolan waited, crouched, his eyes moving back and forth. There were no more shots, no advancing figures from behind, or moving up the ramp. He remained where he was until his senses told him all of his attackers were down. They had expected him to be an easy target—they had been wrong and had paid the price. He moved, still cautious, making his way to the street-level exit. At the exit Bolan hugged the shadows, checking the street beyond the building. Streetlights cast pale light on the wet sidewalk. There was no movement, no sign of further opposition.

  Bolan put away the Beretta and zipped his jacket, turning up the collar against the rainy and chill Newark evening. He cut across the street and retraced his steps to where he had left his rental.

  Inside the car he took out his cell phone and speed-dialed Captain Ben Cahill.

  “I picked up your suggestion,” Bolan said, “and paid a call to Manny Gottfried’s place.”

  “Any joy?”

  “I’d hardly call it that,” Bolan said. “Someone beat me to it. Gottfried was dead in his chair. Two bullets in his head. Something else, too. His boss, Costanza, was there, as well. He had a garrote wrapped around his throat. It cut deep enough to sever his arteries.”

  “Jesus,” Cahill whispered.

  “Whoever did the killing left a cleanup team behind to deal with any stragglers.”

  “You cause any damage?”

  “They gave me no alternative,” Bolan said. “Cahill, they spoke Russian. What does that tell you?”

  The cop didn’t say anything for a couple of beats. “I’m thinking Russian Mafiya. Main guy around the district is Zader Poliokof, a mean son of a bitch. He’d as soon cut off your hand than shake it.”

  “Maybe when you check out the dead you might recognize them. The Russian Mob usually has specialized tattoos that should tell you their affiliation. If they are Poliokof’s crew, it looks like there’s an organized crime fallout brewing.”

  “Poliokof has been looking for a chance to expand. Your business in town has likely set him in motion.” Cahill cleared his throat. “Cooper, I am damn glad you’re moving on. Much as I understand your motivation, I figure you’ve filled your quota here. You get the hell out of Newark and let me deal with the mess.”

  “I’m done here, Captain. I’ll be gone in the next couple of hours.”

  “See to it that you are, and try to stay clear of my town for a while.”

  Bolan cut the call. He started the car and eased out of the alley, heading back to his hotel. He needed to pick up his belongings and check out before he drove to make his rendezvous with Grimaldi.

  His upcoming trek to New Mexico would take him far from Newark’s chill and rain. In its place would be the dusty environs of the Southwest, an open landscape under cloudless skies.

  Bolan already had a feeling he was going to find plenty of heat there—and not all of it down to the climate.

  11

  “You like it hot, Sarge? Well, you sure as hell got it,” Grimaldi said.

  The Gulfstream C-21A had touched down at the small strip, the Stony Man pilot cruising across the concrete apron to come to stop alongside a couple of aircraft parked outside a hangar. Next to the building a tacked-on office displayed the name Sandro Air.

  “I get the feeling you know the owner,” Bolan said, preparing to off-load his gear.

  “Sandro and me, well, we hang out whenever I’m in the area,” Grimaldi said.

  A slim figure dressed in dark blue coveralls and a baseball cap sauntered out of the office and came to meet Grimaldi. Bolan smiled when he saw the attractive young woman. She threw her arms around the pilot and kissed him openly and without embarrassment. Grimaldi returned the embrace.

  Bolan stood to one side until the pair decided they had exhausted the greeting.

  “So this is how they hang out in New Mexico,” he said.

  Grimaldi grinned. “Kind of covers things,” he said. “This is Melina Sandro. Mel, a good buddy of mine. Matt Cooper.”

  The soldier returned the firm handshake. The young woman was beautiful, with dark hair and a lightly tanned skin. Her eyes were large, brilliantly violet and her generous mouth showed even, white teeth. Bolan could understand why his friend liked her.

  “Good to know you, Coop,” she said. “How do you know this sky bum?”

  “Long story,” Bolan said.

  Her grin was as bright as her eyes.

  “You boys ready for some of my famous coffee?”

  “It’s the only reason I ever come here,” Grimaldi said.

  In the snug, tidy office Sandro poured them mugs of her hot, rich brew. Bolan had to admit it was good.

  “So what brings you down here?” the woman asked.

  “Business.”

  She obviously sensed there was more to the story, but Bolan gave her credit for not probing.

  “Jack, are you going to be around for a while?” she asked him.

  “Until Cooper is ready to leave,” Grimaldi said, eyeing Bolan.

  The office phone rang and Sandro moved to answer it,

  “I’ll keep the home fires burning,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll wait here until you call for a ride out.” He nodded in Sandro’s direction. “I have plenty to keep me busy, Sarge.”

  “I need transport,” Bolan said.

  “Well, it’s twelve miles to Las Cruces. I can borrow a truck from Melina and drive you there. You can have your pick of rental agencies and be on your way.”

  “Let’s do it. I need to move on this before I lose momentum.”

  BOLAN CHECKED into the isolated motel he’d spotted as he cruised the highway leading to McQueen. He had decided to rest before making the final run to the town. In the morning he would resume his journey and reach his target location by midday. He parked his dusty SUV and hauled his gear into the room, locking the door.

  After renting the SUV in Las Cruces and saying goodbye to Grimaldi, Bolan had spent time making some purchases. He had used some of the cash he had acquired from the arms deal in Miami and had bought camera equipment, moving from store to store so he didn’t make a large purchase in one place that might arouse suspicion. When he drove out of Las Cruces, he had his assorted photographic gear on the rear seat.

  His cover story would have him as a freelance photographer working up material for a proposed article. It wasn’t the most original idea but it would, hopefully, allow him to move around the county at will while he made his recon. He needed time to check out Cameron and his organization and formulate a plan of attack.

  Bolan understood and accepted that no matter how meticulous a plan might seem, there was always the human element to consider. He knew that no amount of effort could cover unseen factors.

  CAMERON OIL MAINTAINED an office in town. It was situated on Main Street, across from the café where Bolan was having his meal. During the time he sat idly watching through the window, the office had a couple of visitors. One was just a delivery guy, but the second drew Bolan’s attention—a young man, well dressed, who walked with a limp. He pulled up outside the office and climbed out of a bright red Ferrari. He stopped to talk with a uniformed deputy from the town sheriff’s department. The deputy, clad in tan shirt and pants, was overweight, his soft stomach straining his shirtfront. The two men appeared to be extremely friendly.

  The café waitress, a friendly woman with a badge on her blouse that read Cora, poured Bolan a refill and noticed him looking across the street. When he’d come into the café, Cora had observed he was new in town and Bolan had used the opportunity to explain his presence, showing her the camera he carried with him.

  “This is a small town,” Cora had said. “A new face is hard to miss. We don’t get many visitors, being way off the interstate. Apart from tourists in the summer, that is. It gets dull sometimes, but it’s how folks like it. Me, well, I love to meet a fresh face.” She had placed his meal in front of him. “Enjoy, honey.”

  Now she said, “If you’re thinking of adding him as one of your subjects, forget it. He’s a mean one. I’m damn sure he blames the world for his bad leg. He’s liable to run you over with that fancy car of his if you tried to take his picture.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I don’t want to bother anyone. Is he a local celebrity or something?”

  Cora laughed. “Nathan Cameron a celebrity? He might figure he’s somebody special. He just walks in his big brother’s shadow.”

  “Brother?”

  “Lou Cameron. He owns Cameron Oil, which refines and transports oil for a number of local outfits. His place is about twenty miles south of town.” She finished topping up his coffee. “Word of advice, honey—wipe Cameron Oil off your list, as well. It’s not what I’d call a people friendly company.”

  “That sounds like good advice, Cora. I just want some nice pictures. No aggravation.”

  He didn’t let her know that Cameron Oil and its owners were just what he had come to town for. Cora’s information would be added to what Bolan already had for the upcoming recon.

  So far he knew that the oil company was isolated and visitors weren’t welcome. Barrels of oil and a transport division didn’t exactly warrant unsociability—unless Cameron Oil had more on its books than it was owning up to.

  Bolan drank his coffee, his mind winding ahead to what he had to do. Going on his intel, it was looking more and more likely that Cameron’s desert enterprise was the central base of his operation. All Bolan needed was confirmation. And if he got that incriminating evidence, then the Cameron site was going to be on the receiving end of a Bolan Blitz. He would hit the refinery and reduce it to ashes—the Cameron brothers along with it.

  The Executioner was going to put the company out of business and retire its owners permanently.

  12

  The single-lane road out of McQueen ran in a straight line through semiarid terrain. Cactus, scrub, sand and the hot sun surrounded Bolan. He drove at a steady speed, not wanting to exceed the speed limit. He didn’t need the local law pulling him over.

  His GPS was showing he was no more than a mile from the turnoff that would lead him to Cameron Oil. Bolan eased off the gas, letting the SUV slow. According to the screen readout, the side road was still a county road, not a restricted private one, so there was nothing to prevent Bolan from using it.

  The shrill, undulating sound of a siren caught his attention. Bolan checked his rearview mirror and saw a large black-and-white SUV police vehicle coming up behind him. He dropped his speed and pulled across to the dusty shoulder. Bolan cut the engine and sat waiting patiently as the police truck stopped. The driver’s door opened, and the soldier was not at all surprised when the overweight deputy he had seen talking to Nathan Cameron climbed out. The guy moved slowly, right hand on the butt of his holstered pistol.

  This is interesting, Bolan thought. He had only been in town a few hours and the local cops were showing an interest in him already. He sat back, window powered down and both hands on the steering wheel, and waited for the deputy to reach him.

  “I want to see your…” The guy stopped when he realized Bolan’s hands were in plain sight. He maintained his belligerent expression, and his gun hand stayed exactly where it was. He took a breath. Sweat glistened on his soft face and he blinked away where it had run into his eyes.

  “Is there a problem, Deputy?” Bolan asked quietly as he handed over his driver’s license.

  “I’ll decide that. You just stay still.”

  Bolan decided to let the deputy do his job. His passive attitude had already thrown the guy off his stride.

  The name tag on the man’s strained shirt read Magruder. He handed back Bolan’s license and stepped away from the side of the SUV, his eyes searching the interior, front and back.

  “What’s in the bags?”

  “My equipment.”

  “Such as?”

  “Photographic gear. Cameras, flash units. I’m a photographer.”

  “Show me,” he demanded, the gun hand gripping the pistol butt tightly.

  “Can I move, Deputy? You did say to stay still.”

  “One thing I can’t stand is a smart mouth.”

  “Just doing what I was told.”

  Magruder moved well clear of the vehicle, pulling his pistol and aiming it at Bolan. “Out of the vehicle, you son of a bitch. Don’t try smart-mouthing me, boy, ’cause you picked the wrong man to do it to.”

  Bolan opened his door and stepped out, keeping both his arms well away from his body as he waited for Magruder’s next move. As setups went, this one was so clumsy it might have been laughable under different circumstances.

  “Show me what’s in those bags. Lift them out of the car and place them on the ground. You do it slow, boy, and don’t give me a reason to shoot you.”

  “I’m surprised you need one, Deputy Magruder. Is this the way you treat all visitors to the county? Now, unless you can give me a valid excuse for wanting to pry into my personal belongings I’m not taking those bags out of the vehicle. You’ve already given me enough to call my lawyer in Los Angeles, and when I tell him what’s happened here, your sheriff is going to be wondering what hit him.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, boy,” Magruder said. Bolan sensed a lowering in his aggressive attitude.

  “I was driving well below the limit, on a county road. I stopped when you signaled me, offered no resistance and did what you said. So what are you charging me with, Deputy Magruder? Just so I can inform my legal adviser, you understand.”

  “I could cuff you right this instant and haul your ass to jail.”

  “You could,” Bolan said. “Sooner or later I would still get my phone call and then the trouble starts. For you, I mean.” He watched the sweat run from beneath the brim of Magruder’s hat. “It’s hot out here, Deputy. Maybe we should drive back to town and I’ll have a face-to-face with your sheriff and we can sort this out.”

  “The hell we will,” Magruder replied. “I got cause to hold you.”

  “Oh? Better read me my rights and hope it sticks, Magruder, because you don’t have a damn thing. Take your shot and make it a good one. It might be your last one as a deputy. If I take you to court, you’ll end up out of a job and your department will be facing a harassment suit.”

  Magruder held his ground a while longer. He was thinking hard, knowing that Bolan had outsmarted him, given him no way to turn. As dumb as he was, Magruder realized Bolan had talked him into a no-win situation. Getting some smart lawyer on his case would push Magruder deeper into the hole he had already dug for himself.

  He jammed his pistol back into the holster, his face twisted into an ugly scowl. “We’ll see, boy,” he said. “I promise you this isn’t over. I’ll see you again—under my rules.”

  He stomped away, his beefy face flushed, and climbed into his SUV. Bolan watched as Magruder hauled the big vehicle past, tires burning rubber. He stayed where he was as the county patrol vehicle sped along the road, trailing a cloud of dust in its wake. He waited because he wanted to verify something in his mind, and he received his confirmation when the patrol vehicle made a left turn onto the dirt road that led toward Cameron Oil. The long dust cloud marked Magruder’s passing, still visible minutes later when Bolan climbed back into his vehicle and drove on. He rolled past the turnoff and kept driving.

 

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