Читать книгу Dark Alliance - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Luis Costa swirled the rich, dark rum around the glass, the telephone cradled against his ear. He took a swallow, letting the aromatic flavor of the liquor fill his mouth.

“Did he call the police?” he asked his lieutenant.

“I don’t think so. He was inside for some time, so he must have found the bodies. When he left he closed the gates behind him. Like he didn’t want to show he had been there.”

“Did you recognize him?” Costa asked.

“Never seen him before. Big hombre. Looks like he could handle himself. Maybe an associate of the Connor bitch. Another journalist, maybe?”

“What are you doing about him?”

“I had people follow him back into the city. We took the details of his SUV. Cabrerro is running a check as we speak.”

“Good. Watch him. See where he goes.”

“What do you think?”

“I think we need to deal with him. But first we have to find out if Connor gave him any of the information she has been gathering. Use whoever you need to learn what you can. Remember, we have to contain this. If information leaks the whole operation could fall apart.”

Costa dropped the phone back on its cradle, swiveling his chair around to stare out the window of his Miami office. He looked across the placid blue water of the bay, watching power boats race back and forth, leaving white trails behind them.

The man who had visited the Connor house intrigued him. It was the calm way he had exited the house and driven off. Calling in the police and waiting for them to arrive would have been the normal way to handle the situation, but for unknown reasons this man had withdrawn quietly, leaving the house as he had found it.

What did that mean?

Costa was determined to find out. As Raul Manolo’s right-hand man, he had to inform his boss of this latest development.

His call was answered immediately.

“We have had an unknown visitor at the Connor house. I am having him checked out. Once we establish who he is we can decide what to do about him.”

“A cop? Federal agent?” Manolo asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to establish.”

“Could he have been given Connor’s findings?”

“Possibly. We won’t know until we establish his identity.”

“Just kill him,” Manolo said.

“Shouldn’t we first find out if he knows anything? In case he has passed any information along.”

“This is fucking ridiculous. How many people do we have to deal with until we’re sure we have things contained?”

“Let me deal with this. After all, it is what you are paying me for,” Costa soothed.

“Keep me in the loop. But make your own decisions. I have other things to deal with.” Manolo slammed down the phone.

Costa’s lieutenant called half an hour later.

“Cabrerro ran down the SUV through the rental agency. He tried a background check on the company that rented it. Nothing. He ran into serious encoding. No way can we find out who this hombre works for.”

“What about him?”

“Same. No background details. It’s like he just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Keep checking.” Costa considered what he had just heard. “Tomás, be ready to pull this guy off the street. We can’t afford to have him poking around too much.”

“Just give the word and he’s ours.”

“We need him alive, Tomás. He can’t tell us anything if he’s dead.”

Costa opened a drawer in his desk and took out a cell phone. He dialed one of three special numbers. The man on the other end of the phone was an American.

“We have encountered an unexpected visitor. He was seen entering and leaving the Connor house. Didn’t wait around.” Costa recited the license plate number of the SUV his people had seen. “We can’t find anything about him, or who rented the vehicle. He could be a nuisance. Use your police contact to identify him.”

“I’ll see what I can do. What have you done about him?”

“At the moment, I am keeping him under surveillance. I want to see what he does.”

“Don’t let him run on a long leash. If he gets lucky your troubles might get bigger.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered that,” Costa muttered as he disconnected the call.

THE EXECUTIONER WAS in South Beach.

Paul Sebring ran his business from the top floor of a low-rise building. The street level was a seafood restaurant. Access to Sebring’s office was via the wide alley that ran along the side of the building. White-painted steps led to the studio setup. Bolan made his way into a reception area with the walls covered in examples of Sebring’s work. Even a cursory glance told Bolan the man was good. Behind the desk a pretty young woman glanced up from her computer keyboard.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I help?”

“I need to speak to Paul Sebring,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

“Okay,” the woman said. She pointed at a door to one side of the desk. “Through there. Paul’s office is on the left. Third door.”

Bolan nodded. “Thanks.”

As he walked along the corridor a door opened and a man leaned out.

“I’m Paul Sebring. Is there a problem?”

Bolan followed the photographer into a spacious, airy office that was expensively decorated and looked out over South Beach.

Sebring was a tall, fit-looking man in his midthirties. He was dressed in casual clothing and his pale blond hair was thick. He held out a large hand, smiling at his visitor.

“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. He showed Sebring his Department of Justice credentials and watched the man’s expression grow serious.

“Now you have me worried.”

They sat facing each other across Sebring’s large desk.

“Maggie Connor,” Bolan stated simply and watched Sebring’s reaction.

“Is she okay?”

“That sounds as if you know she might be in trouble,” the Executioner said.

“I never could hide my feelings. Look, all I can tell you is the last time she contacted me, Maggie…well, she sounded stressed. I’ve known her a long time and she isn’t easily rattled.”

“Did she tell you what was getting to her?”

“Not straight out. I just guessed it had to do with her current investigation. Something about illegal weapons dealing in Colombia. I told her she was on pretty thin ice with something like that. Those people do not play nice.” Sebring stared hard at Bolan, trying to read his thoughts. “Jesus, is she hurt? Missing?”

“Looks that way. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did Maggie leave anything with you? Send you anything?”

Sebring sat upright, color draining from his face. He pushed up out of his chair and crossed the office, sliding open a drawer in a filing cabinet. He took out a small padded envelope.

“This arrived the other day. Never gave it much thought. Maggie’s always sending me stuff to hold for her. She isn’t much of an organizer.”

Sebring offered the envelope to Bolan. He checked the postmark. It had been sent four days ago. Mailed from upstate Florida. He tore the sealing strip and tipped the contents out on Sebring’s desk. There were two items. A digital camera memory card and a computer flash drive.

“I wonder what’s on them,” Sebring said.

“I’ll know when I read them.”

“No, you won’t,” someone said.

The Executioner turned and saw a broad-shouldered man in light pants and a colorful shirt. The thug had long black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and a taut, angular face. There was a large pistol in the man’s hand. It had a sound suppressor screwed on to it and the muzzle was pointing at Bolan. Behind the gunman was a second guy, dark and squat. He had Sebring’s receptionist held tight against him, one hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm around her waist.

“Just give me the pieces,” the gunman said.

Sebring exploded with anger. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The man didn’t blink. He shifted the muzzle of the pistol and fired. The slug smashed into Sebring’s left shoulder, knocking the surprised photographer backward.

Bolan swiveled from the waist, his right forearm sweeping around to catch the shooter’s arm and deflect the pistol. Continuing the swift move Bolan brought his left arm up and circled the gunman’s wrist. He trapped the arm beneath his own, clamping it to his side, swung hard and hauled the man off balance. Bolan grabbed for the pistol, twisting it brutally, snapping the finger still inside the trigger guard. The gunman let out a shout of pain and dropped the pistol. Bolan pivoted, the point of his right elbow thudding hard into the man’s face. His nose broke under the impact. Blood began to gush from his nostrils. Bolan grabbed the man’s hair and pulled his head forward and down. His rising knee met the gunman’s forehead. The impact sent him reeling across the office, moaning, his hands clutched to his smashed face. Bolan spotted the dropped gun and scooped it up.

Satisfied that the man was out of action Bolan turned in the direction of the second intruder who was still holding Sebring’s receptionist. The stocky man seemed stunned to see his downed partner curled up on the floor of the office. He turned his attention back to Bolan, now holding the pistol and closing the distance between them with speed. In a split second decision he released the receptionist, pushing her at Bolan, then turned and ran for the exit.

As the Executioner strode through the reception area he was only a couple of steps behind the fleeing figure. He raced through the door and caught the man at the top of the exterior steps. The man half turned in Bolan’s direction as he sensed his pursuer’s close proximity. His hand came out of his pocket to reveal a knife. The Executioner slammed the pistol across the side of the man’s face. The blow was delivered hard, opening a raw gash. The thug squealed, an odd, high-pitched sound, and dropped the knife. The squeal trailed off as Bolan hit him a second time. The man stepped back, trying to avoid the blow. He moved too far and stepped over the edge of the top step. He tumbled down the steps, turning over a couple of times before hitting the bottom where he lay motionless.

Bolan returned to Sebring’s office. He found the photographer slumped on the floor beside his desk, a bloody hand clutched to his shoulder. The receptionist was on the phone, calling for assistance. When she saw the gun in Bolan’s hand her eyes widened in alarm.

He put the gun away. “Take it easy,” he said. “I’m on your side.”

He crossed to check the gunman. The man was still clutching his face, moaning softly. Then he went back to Sebring. The photographer, pale-faced and sweating, glanced up at the Executioner.

“You always bring guests to the party?” he asked.

“Never invited ones,” Bolan said grimly.

“Next time, Cooper, just bring a bottle.”

The receptionist put the phone down. “Police and ambulance are on their way.”

Bolan turned to her. “Got any towels we can use to stop the bleeding?”

The young woman nodded and left the office.

“This has to do with Maggie?” Sebring asked.

Bolan took the items from the envelope and dropped them into his pocket. He glanced at Sebring. The photographer sensed what Bolan was silently asking and gave a brief nod.

The receptionist came back with some towels. She helped Bolan get Sebring into his chair. The Executioner wadded one of the towels and placed it over the wound.

“Hold that in place, miss.”

She nodded and said, “The name’s Carrie.”

“Just keep good pressure on that towel, Carrie.”

Bolan crossed to the door, taking out his phone. He punched in his contact number for Brognola. When the big Fed answered Bolan calmly explained what had happened.

“I can’t walk out until Miami P.D. arrive. There’s one perp on the floor and another outside the building. I won’t leave and put these people in the way of further harm.”

“When they arrive let me speak to the head honcho. I’ll square things,” Brognola said.

“Thanks.”

“Any good going to come out of this?” Brognola asked.

“I don’t know yet but tell Bear to get ready because I’m going to send him some information.”

“Okay. Get back to me for your get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Ten minutes later the office was a busy place. Police and paramedics vied for space. Sebring was given treatment prior to hospital transport to have the bullet removed from his shoulder. The gunman Bolan had put down was cuffed before his own ride for treatment. He’d said nothing, mostly due to the fact that his jaw was shattered and his nose badly crushed. The second attacker had vanished by the time the cops arrived. He had left blood behind on the concrete at the bottom of the steps but he’d disappeared. Carrie sat on a chair in one corner of the office, absently rubbing at the bloodstains on her dress but physically unharmed.

The Executioner stood to one side, waiting while the cop in charge had his conversation with Brognola. The cop ended the call and returned Bolan’s phone to him.

“Looks like you’re off the hook, Agent Cooper,” he said amiably.

Lieutenant Gary Loomis was a lean, tanned cop in his thirties. His boyish face belied the things he had seen during his tenure with the Miami-Dade force. Despite the heat he wore a suit and tie. He stood in front of Bolan, hands on his hips, studying the big man.

“So what brought you to Sebring’s office again?” the cop asked.

“Just following up on information received,” Bolan recited. “An ongoing investigation. Sebring was pegged to answer a couple of questions. He isn’t a suspect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Loomis said. “Need to know and all that crap.”

“Sorry, Loomis. If I could tell you more I would.”

Loomis grinned. “Hell, don’t sweat it. I got enough local crime to keep me busy. Last thing I need is another pile of paperwork to wade through. That yahoo you gave us is going to use up a whole tree’s worth of forms by the time we get him processed.”

“Any idea who he is?”

Loomis shook his head. “Maybe when we run his prints we’ll get lucky.”

“I’d appreciate hearing about anything you turn up.”

Loomis handed Bolan a card. “Call me.”

“Thanks.”

“Anything for the Feds, Agent Cooper.”

“SO WHERE TO NOW?” Brognola asked.

Bolan was behind the wheel again, heading out of the city. His only lead was the origin of the package Maggie Connor had mailed to Sebring.

“Riba Bay. Have Bear check the place out. See if there’s anything Maggie might have been interested in. And tell him I’m going to download the contents of the memory card and flash drive as soon as I can.”

Bolan ended the call.

He saw a shopping mall and eased off the highway, taking a parking spot close to the entrance. He made his way through the mall until he saw a computer store. Inside he asked for the manager. When the man arrived, looking all of sixteen years old, Bolan showed his Justice identification and explained what he wanted. Minutes later he was seated at a work station in the manager’s office, downloading the memory card and flash drive to send to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, the communications expert for Stony Man Farm. An acknowledgment e-mail came through saying the material had been received. Bolan erased it. He found the store manager, thanked him for his cooperation and returned to his SUV.

He had been driving for just under thirty minutes when he spotted the car tailing him….