State Of War. Don Pendleton

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      CHAPTER THREE

      Safehouse

      Bolan gazed long and hard at his files. Krokodil was just about the worst thing he had ever come across. He had seen the results of weaponized flesh-eating bacteria, but he had never seen that kind of damage self-inflicted. Bolan shook his head and clicked out of the horrific catalog of flesh eaten down to the dermis and bones showing through suppurating muscle tissue. Bolan had dedicated himself to a War Everlasting against organized human evil. He would be damned if he let this drug get a foothold in the United States. Bolan couldn’t bring himself to hate the junkies, the cooks or even the dealers. From all his research, when it came to krokodil they were all one and the same. They lived to fix until they died looking like extras in a zombie film, but some organization had introduced this filth into Florida.

      Bolan intended to introduce himself to those individuals directly.

      Kaino sat cleaning and oiling his twin .357s. Had the revolvers not been finished a lustrous gunmetal blue they would have sparkled. “You’re not buying the Zeta shit.”

      “According to my source, they seem to have the most reliable supply of crocodile here in the metropolitan area.”

      “That jibes with what I know, as well, but I stand by my statement. You’re not buying the Zetas roughing up Popov and his playmates.”

      “No, if the Zetas had paid a visit to the Tea Room there would have been a bloodbath, and assuming they came out on top, their method of inquiry would have included lopping off limbs and heads. For that matter, most of the original Zetas who were Special Forces operators are dead. Those who are still around are the equivalent of generals in the cartel. They don’t do field ops anymore, and they sure as hell don’t leave Mexico. On top of that, I’m thinking Masterkeying a door is a little bit above the brains and pay grade of their local street gang affiliates here in Florida. Popov and his pals got worked by pros, like you and me, and they were deliberately left alive.”

      “You think they’re under observation,” Kaino stated.

      “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

      “You think we got observed going in?”

      “Wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Bolan said.

      “Great, we’ve been made.”

      “You worried about getting slap-jacked the same way?”

      “Hell no.” Kaino grinned and reached into the bag he had taken from his apartment. He pulled out a twelve inch beavertail sap that was scuffed from long use, dry from long storage but shined with recent buffing. “I’m looking forward to meeting the competition.”

      “I thought you said Miami-Dade banned those.”

      “I’m on an open-ended, paid, consulting leave of absence. I’m interpreting that to mean I have a great deal of leeway in my operational and equipment requirement paradigms.

      “So, you want to drop in on Los Zetas, anyway?”

      “I think we’ll start with the local affiliates and work our way up the food chain. I’m looking at you for a place to start.”

      “Oh, I got a place we can start.” Kaino slapped the sap into his palm.

      * * *

      B OLAN EYED THE DRUG fortress. It was an old, brick, two-story business building that had once housed an accounting firm. The windows were now barred and boarded. The front door was shiny stainless steel with a security camera above it, and a requisite oversize gangbanger stood in front mad-dogging anyone who walked by. The street was busy, but the locals made an extra effort to cross the street and not walk by. “Who lives here again?”

      “A Zeta asshole named Salami.” Kaino handed Bolan a file.

      Walter “Salami” Salemo had hair halfway down his back, wore a big white pirate shirt and stared into the mug shot camera with brown-eyed earnestness. The Salami looked like he should have been playing The Beatles’ “Rocky Raccoon” on a twelve-string guitar in a coffee bar someplace instead of being one of Miami-Dade’s most notorious meth distributors. According to the file, Salami had recently moved into moving crocodile.

      Kaino waved his hand impatiently at the photo. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, but don’t let the noble-faired, long-haired, leaping-gnome look fool you. This guy Salami is a total dick.” Kaino poked a puckered scar on his chin Bolan had assumed was from his boxing career. “I got the scars to prove it. This guy will fool you. He nearly took my head off a few years back. Practices capoeira and shit.”

      Bolan duly noted Salami’s martial arts background and raised an eyebrow at the man’s résumé. “Argentine?”

      “The South Americans love coming to Florida.”

      “Don’t I know it,” Bolan replied.

      “So, you kicked the shit out of three gangs last night. You kicked the crap out of the Russians this morning. What’s on the agenda for the afternoon? You going to walk up to the door and start kicking the crap out of Salami and his people?”

      “That was my first plan of attack. You got a better one?” the soldier asked.

      “Listen, no one respects how you roll more than me.”

      “Glad to hear that.”

      “But sooner or later this ‘biggest dick on the block’ routine of yours is going to get us in some real trouble.”

      “Well, all right, then. Wait until I’ve breached the door.”

      “Your funeral.”

      “Not if you can help it, Kaino.”

      “Here we go again...”

      Bolan took the baseball out of the box he had received by courier and slid out of the car. He set the modified Pittsburg Pirates cap on his head and walked across the street toward Salami’s fortress of narcatude. He wore earth sandals, cargo shorts and a Hawaiian СКАЧАТЬ