Deep Recon. Don Pendleton

Deer Key. Every local cop, every county deputy, and every state trooper in the Keys has their car serviced there. Why, you offering to pay to fix it?”

      As he wrote that information down, Bolan said, “Yes.”

      Again, Maxwell found herself brought up short by an answer she wasn’t expecting from this man. “Really?”

      “I need to make a phone call.” He folded the piece of paper and pulled a sat phone out of his jacket pocket. “After that, you can take the Mustang to Ellis and leave it there. Pick it up when they’re done, and don’t worry about the cost.”

      Maxwell was impressed. She’d been in this game a long time, and she never knew of any op that had the budget to do car repairs on the level necessary for this. In fact, just in case, she asked, “You do realize that this is a very old car that they don’t make new parts for it, right? Just replacing that side-view mirror will be fifty bucks, before labor, and that’s the cheapest repair on there.”

      “It’s fine,” he said, moving back toward the bedroom. “Excuse me.”

      He went into her bedroom and closed the door. Confusion receded in Maxwell, the outrage coming back full force. She yanked the door open to see the man entering information into the sat phone.

      “This is my bedroom!” This time, Maxwell straightened her back, making sure Cooper got an eyefull of her chest.

      He didn’t once look below her neck. “I’m aware of this room’s function. This call is private. Please close the door.”

      Maxwell let out a noise that sounded like a pipe bursting. But she did leave the room and closed the door, which was all Bolan cared about.

      HE’D BEEN UP ALL NIGHT, making sure the truck crash was contained and dealt with. Brognola had sent a cleanup crew, and also used his contacts in the FBI to get someone from the Monroe County Field Office to take charge of the investigation, making sure that the Executioner’s role was kept out of any official reports by the local cops, the Feds, or the National Transportation Safety Bureau, not to mention the company that owned the truck, who’d probably do an investigation of its own.

      Complicating matters was the fact that the person in the Aveo didn’t have any ID on him, and the credit card and driver’s license he’d used with the rental car company belonged to a ninety-three-year-old retired plumber from Hialeah who’d died a week earlier.

      Now Bolan needed a good-night’s sleep before following up on the only lead he had—the “Delgado” person that Kenny V mentioned during the last phone call of his life—but first he had to contact Brognola.

      Once he had been connected to the head of Stony Man, Bolan provided Brognola with the information about Ellis Auto Body.

      “We’ll take care of it, Striker,” Brognola assured him.

      “I should’ve just rented a car,” Bolan said. “I know you said to work with this woman, but I question her professionalism.”

      “She knows the players, Striker. And her reputation is sterling.”

      “That’s what I heard, too, but all the evidence I’ve seen doesn’t even come close to supporting that reputation, Hal.”

      “Be that as it may, she’s a valuable asset. Without her, you’ll have a much harder time of it. And now that Lee knows BATF is on to him, he may circle the wagons and we’ll have lost our chance to put him away. Time is of the essence here.”

      “Fine.” Bolan had raised his objection, and Brognola had noted it. There was no point in arguing it further. “Any word on our assassin?”

      “Yes, and it’s not good,” Brognola said. “We’ve ID’d him as a merc named Ward Dayton. We were only able to get a positive on him because he’s in the CIA database.”

      “As a person of interest or a contractor?”

      “The latter, unfortunately. They’ve used him for wet work on any number of occasions in Cuba, Nicaragua, Chile and a few times in North Africa. In fact, my guy at the Company wasn’t exactly pleased that you’d killed him.”

      “I’m only disappointed that he got himself killed before I could find out why he was doing Kenny Valentino—though I have a pretty good guess.” Bolan paused before continuing. “Why is the CIA’s Central and South American go-to guy putting bullets in two-bit errand boys for gunrunners?”

      “That’s a good question, Striker. You need to find the answer, but my guess is that this is the first step in that wagon-circling I was just talking about.”

      “Valentino had a rep for shooting his mouth off, and unlike Ms. Maxwell’s rep, it was one I have little trouble believing he earned, and that’s based only on the ninety seconds I saw of him before he bought it. If Lee wants to close ranks, Valentino would almost definitely have been near the top of the list of potential loose ends to tie off.”

      “What’s your next move?” Brognola asked.

      “Kenny mentioned a lieutenant of Lee’s named Delgado. I’m going to pay him a visit. I’ll keep you posted.”

      3

      After getting a few hours’ sleep on Maxwell’s living-room couch, Bolan went to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. Maxwell was nowhere to be found, which the Executioner found both annoying and a relief. The former because he wanted to ask her about Delgado.

      He set the coffeemaker to provide him with a full pot. As it gurgled, he looked out the front window to see that the Mustang was gone. Bolan assumed that Maxwell had taken it to the auto body shop.

      Once the coffee had stopped brewing, Bolan poured himself a cup and went back into the living room. Laying out each of his weapons on the coffee table, he carefully and meticulously cleaned each one, inside and out. He had separate cleaning kits for the SIG-Sauer, the Desert Eagle and the RRA rifle.

      He cleaned the Desert Eagle first, reassembling it before moving on to the SIG-Sauer. Poor maintenance was a common cause of misfires, and the Executioner’s life had been saved more than once by his opponents being too stupid to clean their weaponry properly.

      He had just finished cleaning the RRA rifle when he heard a car pull into the driveway, one that didn’t have the distinctive purr of the ’65 Mustang. Rather it sounded like an Oldsmobile with a muffler problem.

      When the noise stopped and the bungalow’s door opened, Bolan saw that it was indeed an Olds, one that looked like it was brand-new when disco was born—only about ten years younger than the Mustang, but in considerably worse shape.

      “Oh, good, you’re up,” Maxwell said. She had changed out of the T-shirt and sweats she’d had on earlier, and was now wearing a black tank top and hot pink shorts, as well as the same holster and weapon she’d had when he first arrived. Her breasts were bouncing about in the tank top in a manner that she probably hoped would be as alluring as the white T-shirt she’d worn earlier. But Bolan was just as uninterested now as he was before his nap—he had more important things to occupy his mind.

      Looking at the coffee and the disassembled rifle, she added dryly, “Make yourself at home.”

      “Thanks,” Bolan said in a like tone. He grabbed the charging handle and the bolt carrier in order to start reassembling the rifle. “What do you know about someone named Delgado who works for Lee?” he asked.

      “Danny Delgado,” Maxwell said without hesitating. “He’s Lee’s right-hand guy. Every time Lee has a meeting of any kind, Delgado stays behind after it breaks up for last-minute instructions.”

      Faraday, who’d just come into the room, added, “That’s why everybody’s got their noses right up Danny’s ass.”

      “Where can I find him?” Bolan asked as he swung the rifle shut, the take-down pin sliding into its proper place.

      Maxwell shrugged. “Don’t know.