Dragon's Den

“Lipinski…” Bolan murmured. “From California?”

“Yes, the same Lipinski who’s been making such a big stink over human rights on cheap, exported labor. He also happens to be a close personal friend of the President’s family. Their kids went to high school together.”

“That explains why the Man’s involved.”

“It gives us a possible reason for why someone might want to kill the girl, too,” Brognola said. He paused and his tone softened. “She was just a college freshman, Striker. Barely out of high school with her whole life ahead of her, and just like that it’s snuffed out.”

Bolan could sense his friend’s pain, even empathize with him, but he’d learned long ago he couldn’t take those things personally. Vengeance, even exercised with righteous might, wasn’t the sort of baggage a professional soldier could afford to carry—not that Bolan hadn’t been tempted himself a time or three. He’d started his war against the Syndicate for the sake of vengeance but quickly converted it to a much higher call: duty.

“Lipinski may not be popular, but I doubt professionals would risk indiscriminate murder,” Bolan replied. “If the killers wanted to send him a message, there are easier and more effective ways.”

“We considered that possibility,” Brognola said. “Truth be told, it’s the drugs that concern us the most.”

“Yeah, that’s the angle I think we should play. Myanmar’s the place I think of for that volume of pure opium.”

“And they have the distribution network to back it up.” Brognola’s tone became matter-of-fact. “If anyone could move it without drawing attention, the heavies in the Golden Triangle would be my first choice.”

“Practice makes perfect. There are two main transshipment points in that area. China, via the Thai route, or straight out of Myanmar. Myanmar still runs the major action, near as I recall. I’d say we start there,” Bolan said.

“I’ll make some calls to our DEA contacts, see what I can come up with as far as the current atmosphere. We’ll make the travel arrangements here. You can expect Jack there within the hour.”

“So soon?” Bolan asked.

Brognola chuckled. “I already knew you’d say yes.”

So four hours later the Executioner stood before the LASD’s station in jeans and a polo shirt. A DEA badge hung from his belt, and the Beretta 93-R rode in a canvas shoulder rig beneath his left arm.

Bolan entered the cool station, and a uniformed woman behind the desk greeted him. Sergeant stripes adorned her sleeve. She sported an enviable California tan, and her blond hair was short. Her clear blue eyes immediately locked on Bolan’s pistol. He tapped the badge and the cop relaxed some.

“Special Agent Cooper, DEA. I’m looking for Captain Amherst.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the young officer asked him in a brisk, judicious tone.

“Not exactly, but I’m sure she’s expecting me,” Bolan replied. It didn’t exactly constitute a direct answer to the sergeant’s question, but it wasn’t entirely untrue, either. Bolan’s experience in role camouflage had taught him middle-of-the-road tales always sounded the most believable.

“Maybe not, but just a moment,” she replied, and reached for a telephone.

Bolan turned to look out the glass doors and tuned out the sergeant’s conversation with whoever picked up at the other end. He couldn’t have cared less about their internal bureaucracy. Bolan had come to find out about the death of an innocent college girl, and partly because his friend had asked for his help.

“Captain Amherst will be with you in a moment, sir. Would you like something to drink while you wait?” the sergeant asked. Her voice had lost much of its edge; someone had obviously instructed her to show him the first-class treatment.

Bolan requested a mineral water. The sergeant smiled and inclined her head, mumbled something, then turned to a compact refrigerator. She produced a plastic bottle a moment later and tossed it to him. He caught it one-handed and nodded his thanks.

Captain Amherst came around the corner of the hallway to Bolan’s left. She strode with confidence, but the uniform didn’t quite hide the curves of her slight, lean form. She wore her coal-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, but the oval face looked mature. She projected the air of a woman in charge, and Bolan immediately pegged her as a pro through and through. This wouldn’t be easy.

“Captain Rhonda Amherst,” she said, extending her hand.

“Matt Cooper,” he replied.

“We weren’t expecting anyone from the DEA just yet,” she said.

“You probably weren’t expecting us at all,” Bolan said with a lopsided grin. “Or at least hoping.”

She inclined her head slightly. “We’re all in this together. Would you follow me, please?”

Bolan fell into step behind her. She led them to a conference room, flipped one of the wall switches and gestured toward a seat at the lit end of the long table. Amherst took the seat at the head of the table, folded her arms and leaned forward. She lowered her voice, but her eyes burned with pure scrutiny.

“Just to be sure I’m making no mistakes, I don’t suppose you’d be willing to show me some official credentials?”

“No problem.” Bolan reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. He flipped out the identification, set it on the table in front of her and then added the badge to it.

She studied them a minute, then returned both to him. “Thanks. Can’t be too careful these days.”

“You’ll find out they’re in order when you call.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw your lips move,” Bolan said. “You memorized the ID number. I was letting you know I’ll check out when you talk to the DEA.”

Amherst couldn’t do a thing about the sudden flush in her cheeks, and Bolan figured she knew it.

“So forget it,” he said with a wave. “I’m not here to tread on toes, Captain. I’m only interested in tracing the origin of the drugs your people seized. Washington tells me it was high-grade opium, and there isn’t too much of that flying around in the quantities we’re talking here. You knew it would attract attention.”

“I’m afraid it goes deeper than that, Agent Cooper.”

“Tell me what you know,” he said, leaning back and relaxing. Bolan figured she’d open up if he kept it loose. “Maybe I can help.”

“Let me start by giving you some idea of our territory,” she replied, getting out of her chair and walking over to a wall map. She stopped to eyeball him and added, “Only because it’s important to our present circumstances. I won’t try to snowball you.”

Bolan nodded his acknowledgment.

“This map encompasses the entire jurisdiction of LASD. My particular area is that part shaded in light blue. Chiefly we provide service to the unincorporated parts of L.A. County, broken into three main areas. Area Marina we monitor with six patrol boats, and we share responsibility with another division over at Santa Monica Bay. We’re also responsible for a number of communities east of us and then of course Lost RD.”

“The what?” Bolan interjected.

Amherst chuckled. “Our little pet name for a small island piece about a mile inland.”

“You said this little tour you’re giving me is important.” Bolan shrugged. “In what way?”

“We recovered more opium in every one of our jurisdictional areas. This stuff has been located in everything from the mansions in Windsor Hills and Ladera Heights to the slums in View Park. That’s what hasn’t been in the papers. I’m under strict orders from the higher-ups to keep this as quiet as possible. I’ve argued with the sheriff. Hell, I even risked my rank by threatening to take it over his head and straight to the county commissioners, but he swore to me he’s keeping them apprised. And yet, nada.”

“So you don’t believe him.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she said with a deep sigh.

“Exactly how much opium are we talking about?” Bolan asked.

Amherst dropped into a chair next to the wall map. “Including the other night, I’d say we’re up to about three thousand kilos. Frankly, it’s more than we can handle. I’m actually relieved the DEA’s involved. The sheriff has no choice now that the cat’s out of the bag.”