Deadly Command

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

1

Miami, Florida

The background intel that set Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, on his current mission had been encapsulated in frustration and not without a little impotent rage. Bolan had sensed the futility of the feelings behind the words transmitted via the interview that followed the triple funeral of slain police officers. He might not have even caught the televised segment if he had not been taking some downtime, following the completion of a mission he had undertaken at the behest of Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm in Virginia. Bolan’s chosen R & R had him chilling out in an expensive hotel on Florida’s sunshine coast. It wasn’t usual for Bolan to indulge in such opulent surroundings but his state of mind had allowed him a few days of rest, something he needed at that precise moment in time. After three days of allowing himself to relax, Bolan knew his downtime was not going to last for much longer and when he turned on that evening’s newscast, the soldier realized just how true that was.

In a standoff with warring street gangs in Miami, five police officers had been fired on—three were dead, one was in a coma and the fifth still in critical condition. Two civilians caught in the cross fire were also dead. Eyewitness accounts had been corroborated in their descriptions of the weaponry used by the gangs. They had been using sophisticated arms, autorifles and the kind of ordnance not usually seen on the streets. A recovered weapon was shown. It was military ordnance, not available to the general public, and not even in use by the police.

The reporter, speaking to a Miami-Dade police officer, questioned why such weapons were on the streets. The cop, barely able to express himself calmly, said that the weapons were being supplied by organized crime groups, and that this was not the first time it had happened. The police had their suspicions as to who was behind the supply chain but had been unable to pursue any clear lines of evidence due to lack of solid proof.

The interview ended with a short piece on the funeral gathering, including shots of the four-year-old daughter of one of the slain officers placing a single rose on her father’s casket. The look of bewilderment and the shine of tears on the girl’s face caught Bolan off guard and he could relate to the held-back anger in the manner and tone of the cop who had been interviewed.

Bolan knew the man. He had worked with him on a mission that had taken the Executioner from Miami to an island off the Cuban mainland.

Gary Loomis was a good cop, a dedicated officer with the Miami-Dade force. Bolan remembered him clearly, and seeing the man’s barely checked grief over the slain officers reminded the soldier of the daily risks police officers took when they placed themselves in the line of fire.

Later that night Bolan found himself recalling the young daughter of one of the dead police officers placing that single rose on her father’s casket. It drifted back to him as he slept. It had been a long time since the soldier had been revisited by a disturbing vision—but the image of the child plagued him until he woke the following morning.

He called MDPD and was connected to Gary Loomis.

“Cooper? 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.