Payback. Don Pendleton

You hardly said two words during the whole trip.”

      “I was just thinking how screwed up things have gotten with this one already.”

      “That isn’t our fault.”

      “No, but it means we’ve inherited a can of worms, as the saying goes.”

      Grimaldi taxied the jet toward the section of private aircraft hangers. A man wearing a vest with brightly colored orange stripes directed them to proceed to the right, where an open hangar awaited.

      “So what’s our first move?” Grimaldi asked. “After we secure this baby and our gear, of course.”

      Bolan had been thinking about how to proceed, and there seemed to be only one course open to them at the moment. “We’re going to see a couple guys about a chopper.”

      “Hot damn,” Grimaldi said. “One of my favorite things to do.”

      * * *

      RIGELLO TRANSPORT AND TOURS was on the edge of town in what appeared to be an unincorporated part of the county, about half a mile beyond the city limits sign for South Tucson. The business itself had a dirt parking lot that gradually gave way to an expanse of asphalt and a long driveway. Three brick buildings with tinted windows were adjacent to the paved lot, and beyond that Bolan could see an extensive area holding neat rows of dilapidated aircraft, trucks, cars and motorcycles.

      As they drove by, Bolan noticed a large metallic sign on the front that read Rigello Transport & Tours. By Appointment Only. The big junkyard out back was surrounded by a seven-foot-high cyclone fence topped with three strands of barbed wire, and an additional hand-painted sign on the front gates said, To Hell with the Dog. Beware of the Owneres.

      “Obviously, we’re about to come into contact with a couple of real Rhodes Scholars,” Grimaldi said, looking at the misspelling through the passenger window.

      He and Bolan had rented a black Escalade with tinted windows, and the air-conditioning was going full blast as the dark SUV sat idling in the late afternoon heat. They’d also opted to wear dark suits, white shirts, ties and sunglasses to fit the role of federal agents.

      “We look like refuges from a Men in Black movie,” Grimaldi said.

      Bolan was studying the layout, figuring where the points of entry and egress were, estimating the approximate locations of the bathrooms by the vent pipes on the roof, and trying to get a feel for the place. He also was watchful for any human activities, but there were none visible.

      “Not really a hotbed of commercial activity, is it?” Grimaldi asked, leaning back in the passenger seat. He took off the nondescript baseball cap and began fanning some of the cold air pouring from the vents toward himself.

      “Go try the door,” Bolan said.

      “Why me?” Grimaldi winced as he looked outside. “It’s gotta be a hundred and five degrees out there.”

      “But it’s a dry heat.” Bolan grinned as he stopped the Escalade.

      Grimaldi heaved a sigh and opened the door. He stepped out and slipped on his suit jacket, pantomiming some heavy panting as he said, “Dry or not, it’s damned hot.” He fanned himself with his open palm as he walked slowly to the front door and twisted the knob. The door opened.

      The pilot turned toward Bolan with a wide grin, waved and went inside. Bolan pulled into a parking space nearest the door and followed him.

      The room was divided into two sections, with a solid rear door leading somewhere. A pair of opaque, plastic shells, about the size of small coffeepots, was affixed to opposite walls, no doubt housing cameras. Their positioning would give a clear view of the entire space 3x to anyone monitoring them.

      The office area was rather small, tucked behind the crudely built wooden counter that served as the divider. Metal shelving units behind the counter held stacks of dusty boxes. Crumpled bags from various fast-food restaurants and half-crushed foam coffee cups littered the floor around a small, overflowing garbage can. The place smelled of smoked cigarettes, half-eaten burgers and body odor. A trace of booze lingered in the air as well, like a slightly noticeable aftershave.

      A lone figure sat at a small gray desk that held a tattered notebook, a telephone and a calendar.

      Grimaldi was already engaged in conversation with him.

      “What do you mean, you’re closed?” he asked. “The front door was open.”

      “That don’t mean nothing,” the man said. He was a short, gray-bearded guy with an aquiline nose and a handkerchief tied over the front of his head, giving way to a long ponytail in back. His light blue T-shirt was stretched tightly over a belly that indicated a rather flabby, out-of-shape body. Huge rings of sweat radiated from each armpit. He wore a holstered Glock on his right side.

      “I’m doing office work at moment. You want to make an appointment, call that number and leave a message.” From the way he spoke Bolan could tell he was missing some teeth in front. The man pointed to a handwritten notice on the wall.

      “Actually,” Bolan said, breaking into the conversation, “we won’t take much of your time.” He held up an official-looking credential identifying him as Special Agent Matthew Cooper of the Justice Department. “We need to talk to you about some helicopters you rented.”

      The man behind the counter cocked his head back and regarded both of them. His mouth gaped slightly, and his lips twisted into what might have passed for a smile in more pleasant surroundings.

      “What exactly are you looking for?” he asked.

      Bolan stepped to the counter and took out his notebook as Grimaldi walked to the windows on the opposite end of the room.

      “May I have your name, sir?” Bolan asked.

      The man’s eyes shifted from him to Grimaldi, then back again.

      “I’m Joe Rigello.”

      “It’d be easier if you just showed him your driver’s license,” Grimaldi said from the windows.

      Before Rigello could reply, the Stony Man pilot cried, “Hey, that wouldn’t be a genuine CH-47 you got out back there, would it?”

      Rigello’s eyes went back to him. “Yep. You familiar with Chinooks?”

      “Hell, yes,” he said with a wide grin. “Flown many a mission in them in my time.”

      “You’re a pilot, huh?” Rigello said.

      “Show me your ID,” Bolan said, holding out his hand.

      Rigello reached into his pocket and took out a brown leather wallet, one side of which looked as sodden as the underarms of his T-shirt. He dug through it, removed his driver’s license and gave it to Bolan.

      “And do my eyes deceive me,” Grimaldi said, his voice imbued with artificial awe, “or is that a genuine Huey Cobra, teeth and all?”

      Rigello laughed. “It is. Only without the rockets and minigun.”

      “Too bad,” Grimaldi said, grinning back. “Old UH-60s? People want to take tours in those things? They must like sitting on hard surfaces.”

      “Looks like you know your helicopters, mister,” Rigello said. “But yeah, we do a lot of work with movie companies. They’re gonna be making another one of them ’Nam movies pretty soon.”

      “No kidding?” Grimaldi moved closer to the counter. “You a pilot?”

      “Naw.” He shook his head. “I just fix ’em. My brother, Dean, is the pilot.”

      “Could you use another one?” Grimaldi flashed him a wide smile. “I love to fly.”

      Rigello grinned back, showing his missing front teeth.

      It was beginning to sound like a war buddy reunion, Bolan thought. He cleared his throat.

      Rigello’s