Deadly Command. Don Pendleton

Hell, of course, I remember you.” Loomis chuckled. “No way I’m liable to forget. So what can I do for you?”

      “It’s what I might be able to do for you, Loomis. Can we meet?”

      “Sure. Give me an hour.”

      Bolan told the intrigued police officer where he was staying, then went down to have breakfast.

      On the terrace they faced each other across a small table, having a drink. The Executioner and the Miami cop, men who walked through the shadow world of violence and corruption, one on the side of the law, the other who worked outside that law.

      “I saw the interview,” Bolan said.

      “Bad time for Miami-Dade.”

      “You know those men personally?”

      “Every damn one of them. Worked with them. Drank with them off duty. Knew their families, too.”

      “The girl who placed the rose?”

      “Emily Crockett.” Loomis stared into empty space for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Sweet kid. She’ll be watched over. We take care of our own. Cooper, our guys never had a chance. They were cut down by state-of-the-art hardware. When I did some checking, I found out similar ordnance has turned up across the country. A definite in Chicago and Newark. I dig deeper. There’s a pattern here. Too much weaponry being sent out. It’s like a preamble for something bigger. The cops on the streets are our only line of defense against these bastards. Hell, Cooper, it’s out of control and we can’t keep up.”

      “Any link to the vendors?”

      “The suppliers?” Loomis gripped his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white. “We have files on them, but nothing strong enough to give us just cause. No real evidence. Oh, we have a couple of local dirtbags we figure are the organization’s crew, but we can’t touch them without airtight proof, and we don’t have that yet. They have lawyers on standby. They’d be back on the street before the charge sheets had finished printing. So we do nothing because if we screw up any investigation, that’s it.”

      “So you have names? Locations?”

      “Well, yeah. But what good…” Loomis stared at Bolan. “What the hell are you thinking, Cooper?”

      Bolan raised his beer. “What am I thinking, Gary?”

      Loomis gathered his thoughts before he spoke. “I know the way you operate, and your rules are way off-the-wall.”

      “We got results last time.”

      “Yeah, I know…but the department would go ape shit if we got involved in something illegal.”

      “The department isn’t going to be involved. Or you. All I need are names and a place to start. After that you forget about me.”

      Loomis ran his hand across his face, taking a deep breath as he considered.

      “Gary, if I’m compromising you, just walk away. I’ll figure another way in.”

      “You could be dealing your way into something heavy. So don’t be fooled into thinking they’ll be easy marks.”

      “No chance of that.”

      Loomis stood up. “Be at the cemetery at five-thirty. Take a look at Jimmy Crockett’s headstone. I’ll be there, too.”

      “Yeah.”

      Before he moved Loomis said, “There has to be a good reason you want in.”

      “There is. Five good reasons, civilians and Emily Crockett.”

      Loomis nodded and walked away, leaving Bolan to his thoughts.

      The soldier could have moved on, walked away and left the matter in the hands of others. But the Executioner was the one who could stand up for the innocents who were unable to fight back.

      Later, back in his room, Bolan powered up the laptop he had borrowed from the hotel. It would allow him to view the contents of the flash drive Loomis had slipped into his jacket pocket as they had stood briefly at the grave of Jimmy Crocket. Loomis had brushed past the soldier as he moved away without a word being spoken, and Bolan had left in the other direction, returning to his hotel.

      Sitting with the laptop on the small table, he let the computer power up. He inserted the flash drive into the USB port and waited while it installed itself. He tapped the keys to open the file and scrolled down: a number of mug shots, each with a short note identifying the individuals.

      Harry Quintain was the local crew chief, a chubby-faced, balding guy in his mid-thirties. His sheet detailed his extensive criminal record.

      Roy Soames was Quintain’s broker-enforcer, a hard-looking guy with a lifelong rap sheet that had started when he was fourteen.

      The files stated that Quintain handled illegal merchandise, including weapons, and had connections in Chicago, which was a distribution hub. Quintain ran the operation in Miami, but his allegiance was to the Chicago operation. It was suspected he moved around his local bases, using diverse locations, which meant law-enforcement agencies were having little success pinning them down.

      For Bolan this was a beginning. The hard work lay ahead.

      THE SOLDIER SPENT a couple of days watching the building that was Quintain’s current base of operations. It was close to the ocean, a modern structure with plenty of glass and shiny steel. The elevator was one of those exposed models that ran up the front of the building so he was able to see Quintain, flanked by two bodyguards and Soames, enter the lobby and step into the elevator. Bolan counted off the floors and saw them step out on the ninth, where Quintain has his suite of offices. His observation of the building, though tedious, fed him what he wanted and by the afternoon of the third day Bolan had enough to make his move.

      Quintain and Soames always arrived in separate cars but traveled together to the ninth floor via the elevator. Quintain spent his days in the building, while Soames made a couple of trips outside daily. Same time each day. He always left on his own, the bodyguards staying in the building with Quintain.

      Bolan was ready on the third day, in his rental car, watching patiently. When Soames stepped out and crossed to his vehicle, Bolan fired up the engine and fell in behind the man as he exited the parking area. The soldier allowed a couple of cars between them.

      They traveled for a good thirty minutes, Soames in no hurry, observing the speed limits. He was in a dark blue metallic Ferrari California convertible, an easy car to follow. Bolan stayed well behind. He saw Soames make a right, off the main drag and into an industrial park. The soldier carried on past the entrance, able to monitor Soames through the chain-link fence as he coasted along the line of storage units. A couple of hundred yards along Bolan spotted a service road, swung onto it and parked. He checked the 93-R in its holster under his sports coat, locked the rental and backtracked until he found a break in the poorly maintained perimeter fence.

      Bolan stood for a moment as he fixed the last position of Soames’s car, then moved steadily between the units as he closed in on the general area. It was plainly obvious the industrial area was deserted. Unit doors hung open. Windows, those not smashed, were dusty, which suited Bolan’s purpose.

      He picked up the sound of voices and tracked in toward them, the Beretta in his hand. Edging around the building, he spotted the Ferrari parked nose-in by a unit. The doors were open. A parked panel truck stood inside. Next to Soames’s vehicle was a bright yellow Corvette.

      He was in conversation with two men. One was well-dressed like Soames. The other had on denims and a florid silk shirt. The conversation appeared amiable.

      Soames said something to the denim-clad man, who then went to the panel tuck and opened the rear doors, exposing a stack of long wooden crates. The top was removed from one of the crates and the guy lifted out an M240 7.62 mm machine gun. The weapon was strictly military ordnance, not designated for civilian use. It was a rapid-fire, belt-fed weapon and would prove devastatingly efficient in the hands of illegal users.