State Of War. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ down. He stepped on the gas and the eighties-vintage Crown Victoria rumbled forward. Bolan could feel the tightness of the suspension as Kaino took them into the bowels of the Metro. Kaino was clearly wary of Bolan. “Justice Department Observation Liaison Officer?”

      Bolan grinned. “That would be me.”

      “You aren’t Marshals Service.”

      “No, but I know some good marshals.”

      “Yeah, me, too.” Kaino’s eyes narrowed. “You sure as hell aren’t a lawyer.”

      “No.”

      “Homeland Security?”

      “Nope.”

      Master Sergeant Kaino had come up through Miami-Dade during the explosion of cocaine and the war on drugs of the 1980s. He gave Bolan a disparaging look. “Tell me you aren’t CIA.”

      “I’m not CIA,” Bolan confirmed.

      “Okay, so, not to be a dick or anything...”

      “But...?”

      “Who the fuck are you?”

      Bolan looked at the ID badge hanging over his chest. “I’m a Justice Department Observation Liaison Officer.”

      Kaino made a noise. “That’s messed up.”

      “Yeah, they’re usually a little more creative.”

      “I hope you brought some heavy iron, man. Where we’re going isn’t good.”

      Bolan glanced at his bulging gear bag in the back. “The hugest.”

      Miami-Dade sweltered in the summer heat, and they instantly lost the breeze off the ocean as Kaino took them inland. The neighborhoods went from bad to worse to urban war zone. Groups of people on porches and street corners gave the Crown Vic very hard looks. Bolan noted a number of the hard cases gave Kaino wary nods of recognition and respect. A small minority waved. On a corner a pair of prostitutes dressed like aerobics instructors shrieked happily as they rolled by. “Hola, Kaino!” “Looking good, Papi!”

      “Hola, Allana!” Kaino called. “And not as good as you, Bebe!”

      Allana and Bebe fired off a string of sexually challenging remarks in Puerto Rican Spanish that Bolan wasn’t quite sure he wanted to understand. “Kaino, those girls are dudes.”

      Kaino regarded Bolan with great seriousness. “I have a broad spectrum of support in the Miami-Dade Latino community.”

      “Broad-spectrum support is good,” Bolan acknowledged.

      Kaino pulled into what could only be described as urban Armageddon. A lonely gas station sat in the island of glare from the lights over its pumps. Most of the streetlights on the block around it had been shot out. Nearly all the telephone lines had shoes tied together thrown across them. Gang graffiti was everywhere.

      Bolan regarded the little old-fashioned filling station with interest. “Interesting.”

      “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

      The soldier grabbed his gear bag, and Kaino led him around back. There was little to see other than a weed-choked lot and some warped and ancient picnic benches. Someone had smashed off the doorknob to the men’s room. Someone else had painted an X-rated fever dream of an Aztec priestess on the door. Even Bolan had to admit it was a triumph. It was such a work of art that no one had tagged it. He noted the security camera over the door hung by wires like a half-decapitated chicken. Kaino drew a pair of four-inch Smith & Wesson revolvers. Bolan carried a .50-caliber Desert Eagle in one hand and a Beretta 93-R machine pistol in the other.

      Kaino regarded Bolan’s steel. “Jesus! You weren’t kidding!”

      Bolan shrugged.

      Kaino kicked the door. “Miami-Dade!”

      The men’s room was empty.

      Bolan mentally cataloged the wall-to-wall, ceiling-to-ceiling gang graffiti covering the bathroom. It appeared that Los Zetas, the Gulf Cartel and Mara Salvatrucha-13 all claimed this men’s room. Given the acts of gastrointestinal Armageddon covering the floor and the facilities, it appeared that none of the gangs felt compelled to take responsibility for the state of hygiene and maintenance of their claimed territory. Bolan gave Kaino a wry look. “The Netas don’t seem very well represented in this establishment, Kaino.”

      “La Asociación del Ñeta is a cultural organization, Cooper.” Kaino scowled. “And if we were in charge of this lavatory, people would be wiping their asses with toilet paper rather than the walls.”

      “You know, I like the way you said that with a straight face. That was good.”

      Kaino smiled despite himself. He looked around the lavatory measuringly. “But you’re right. The Netas aren’t well represented. Back in the day the Netas ran the prisons in Florida. Only the Aryans and the Latin Kings dared to give us any static on the inside. On the outside the Colombians ran the drugs and everyone fought for their business. Mexicans were mules for the Colombians. Mexico was just a transshipment point. And El Salvador?” Kaino scoffed. “A mud puddle where they ate guinea pigs. A Central American tragedy you heard about in the news. Now the Mexicans run everything. The Mexican cartels are the alpha predators now. They’re expanding south as well as north. And MS-13 is like a bunch of pit bulls roaming the streets, animals, biting everything that moves, and moving in on whatever they can move in on.”

      Bolan was intimately aware of the ebb and flow of gang structure in the Americas. He had spilled blood fighting it. Kaino had obviously lived it, survived it, threaded the eye of the needle and come out a lawman. “Hard times for the old association these days?”

      “We aren’t what we were. Netas are still strong on the inside, but out on the streets?” Kaino slowly shook his head. “MS-13 is pushing my people, and they push hard.”

      “So why did you bring me to this shithole again?”

      “Oh, this is a happening nightspot around here.”

      “I can imagine.”

      “No, it is. It’s the only gas station for blocks around. The rest all closed their doors. Every gangster’s whip needs gas, and no one wants to start a war over this station and see it close.”

      Bolan ran his eyes over the mystery stains streaking the walls. “Like the Highlander, holy ground.”

      “That was a good show.” Kaino pointed to the wall over the sinks. All the mirrors had been ripped out, and the wall there was an almost Jackson Pollockian fusion of gangland graffiti tags piled one over the other in such profusion that it was a startlingly profound work of art unto itself. “That’s the message board. That paint has to be at least an inch thick by now.”

      “The gangs leave each other messages here.”

      “Hey, man, during the cold war even Washington and Moscow had a red phone. Sometimes you have to talk.”

      “People come here, check the latest messages and word spreads out,” СКАЧАТЬ