Deep Recon. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ the Desert Eagle was placed snugly in his waistband, reducing the SIG-Sauer in his shoulder holster to the status of backup weapon, Bolan said, “Let’s go.”

      Inside the bungalow was sparsely furnished and lit by garish tropical daylight. Under the right circumstances, such bland décor and intense natural light could be used to disorient, but this was southern Florida, where bright sun was the order of the day.

      Inside was a tall woman in her early- to mid-thirties with red shoulder-length hair and stunning emerald-green eyes. She wore a tube top that barely contained a sizable chest, flip-flops, and toenail polish that were all the same red as the Mustang. Her denim cutoffs had a belt holster that contained a Beretta U22 NEOS 22LR pistol.

      “Lola Maxwell, I presume?” Bolan asked.

      “That would be me. My contacts said you were the best. I’ve never known them to be wrong.

      “We’re trying to bring down a gunrunner here, Mr. Cooper, one who killed a BATF deep-cover agent.”

      “Yes, I know. I read the file. What I don’t know is what you and your thug over here have to do with any of this.”

      Faraday tensed at the “thug” reference, but calmed at a look from Maxwell.

      “Jean-Louis is my associate. He used to be an enforcer for a drug crew out of Key Largo, until I put him away. He’s been working for me since he did his time.”

      “And you?”

      “Since I left the CIA—”

      Bolan almost smiled. “Since the CIA kicked you out on your ass, you mean. Don’t screw around with me, Ms. Maxwell. I take on jobs that need to be done, and I can’t do it with incompetents working alongside me.”

      “I’m not incompetent!” Maxwell said. “My leaving the CIA was political. I’m sure you know all about that.”

      “Yes, which is why I avoid politics.”

      “In any case, BATF hired me to provide support for Johnny—for Agent McAvoy on his undercover job.”

      Jerking a thumb toward Faraday, Bolan asked, “And he fits in where?”

      “He helps me out,” Maxwell said evasively, staring at the floor. “Look, it’s easier to do this kind of thing if you have some kind of local talent. Jean-Louis and I know a lot of the players, plus we have deniability with BATF. Anyone digs, they’ll find an ex-con and an ex-spook. My current work is completely off the grid—kinda like yours, I presume.” She added that with an ironic smile. “And we’re wasting time. I think I know who might’ve fingered Johnny.”

      Bolan folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t like this. “How long were the two of you sleeping together?”

      Maxwell blinked. “What are you talking about?” Her attempt at ignorance was pathetic.

      Moving toward the door, the Executioner said, “We’re done.”

      “What?”

      “You slept with your partner. You’re working with an ex-con. And I get the feeling you’re more interested in vengeance for your lover’s murder than in justice against a gunrunner. I appreciate the lift from the airport, but I’ll take it from here by myself. Like I said before, I don’t work with incompetents.”

      Bolan put his hand on the front doorknob when Maxwell said, “Wait!”

      Turning, Bolan asked, “For what? You’re not going to convince me that this op is anything but botched from the start. You’re too close emotionally, and that clouds judgment—people end up dead. I don’t want one of those people to be me, so we’re done.”

      “But I told you, I know who fingered Johnny.”

      That got Bolan’s hand off the doorknob—temporarily. “Why didn’t you tell the BATF agents at the scene this?”

      “Because I wasn’t thinking straight at the scene. I’ve had a day to think about it, and I know who it has to be—Kenny V. The V is short for Valentino, his last name, but a lot of the boys call him Hot Lips.”

      “A good kisser?” Bolan asked.

      “No,” Maxwell said. “No, they call him that ’cause his lips are always flapping, and the boys all think that his mouth’ll catch fire, they flap so fast.”

      “If he’s that good a talker, how is he still alive?”

      “He doesn’t just talk well, he hears everything and knows everybody. He always makes deals that are good for both parties, and he never squeals.”

      “Time to break that streak, then,” Bolan said, confident in his ability to extract information. “Where is he?”

      “A bar on Sugarloaf Key called Micky’s. He practically lives at the corner table between the jukebox and the pool table. We can be there in twenty minutes.”

      “No, I can be there in twenty minutes. I work better alone.”

      “Dammit, Cooper, you don’t know the players, and you don’t know the territory.” She chuckled. “And look at you. You stand out like a sore thumb.”

      “Maybe. But I can’t do my job and babysit you two. So stay here.” Looking at Faraday, he said, “Car keys.”

      Faraday looked confused.

      Glowering at Maxwell, Bolan said, “You want my help, we do things my way, and that means I go alone with no chance of you two following. I either take your car, or I slash the tires and go rent one of my own. Pick one.”

      Maxwell bit her lower lip, then nodded toward Faraday, who handed over the Mustang’s keys.

      “Smart choice.” Bolan departed the bungalow.

      The Mustang’s engine turned over as soon as Bolan applied the key. The old car hummed like the well-oiled machine it was, and the Executioner was silently impressed with at least one aspect of Maxwell’s character: she kept this four-decade-old car in pristine shape.

      Once he’d put some distance between himself and Maxwell’s bungalow, he took out his sat phone, which was also equipped with a GPS and a secure Internet connection. The latter enabled him to quickly obtain the precise address of Micky’s on Sugarloaf Key, and the former provided directions.

      Sure enough, it took almost exactly twenty minutes to get there. Bolan found a parking lot belonging to a bowling alley a block away from Micky’s, and he parked the rather distinctive Mustang there.

      The Executioner played a serious game, one with his life on the line constantly, and he would only trust someone he could count on to back him up. Every indication showed that Maxwell and her “associate” didn’t qualify.

      He pulled his jacket around him closer as he walked toward Micky’s. The sun was setting and the temperature was plummeting. The wind that came in off the Atlantic was bitter and cut through Bolan.

      Micky’s was a large shack that probably had been used for storage once upon a time. СКАЧАТЬ