Deadly Command

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. Regular beat cops would have no defense against such a weapon if it got on the streets.

Soames checked the M240, nodding his approval. From what Bolan could see, Soames was the buyer, the other guy his source—which made him important to the Executioner.

Edging closer, Bolan was able to hear the conversation.

“You can get more?” Soames said.

“No problem.”

Soames waved his hand at the guy holding the machine gun. “Pack them tight and deliver them to the pickup point.” He took out a cell phone, tapped in a number and spoke. “Everything’s okay. One dozen as requested. We can arrange final delivery. Let Cameron know. Yeah, Jake can get more.” He closed the cell phone and dropped it in his pocket, turned and went to his car. He lifted out a leather satchel and handed it to his supplier. “Count it if you want, Jake.”

The man called Jake hefted the satchel. “I can tell by the weight it’s all there. And we trust each other, don’t we, Roy? In this business, trust is everything.”

Bolan allowed himself a tight smile. Trust between scum. That was a new concept.

“You’ll tell your boss the deal went okay? Like I said, I can work out some sweet terms for you on future buys.”

Soames nodded. “Don’t see why not,” he said, and tapped the satchel in Jake’s hand. “Glad to get that cash off my hands.”

“It’s a lot of money,” Jake said.

Bolan stepped into view, his Beretta covering the trio. “Let me take care of it for you,” he said.

Jake stared at the soldier, his face expressionless. “Pal, you don’t want to be doing this.”

Soames’s eyes blazed with anger, his cheeks coloring. “You know who I am, you fuck? Only thing that money will buy is your funeral. I work—”

“Roy, be advised that it doesn’t pay to upset the guy holding a gun on you. And I know who you work for. I’m not impressed.”

Soames’s reaction, whether provoked by arrogance, or a need to maintain his credibility, was way off the charts. The Executioner could only assume the man really believed he could deal with an adversary even under the threat of a gun.

The man went for the autopistol holstered at his hip, brushing aside the coat he was wearing, eyes widening with the surge of adrenaline that forced his action. His fingers brushed against the textured grips and got no further.

Bolan put a 9 mm triburst into his skull. The impact jerked Soames’s head to one side and he fell back against the Ferrari, blood speckling the gleaming paintwork even as the man dropped to the dusty ground.

Behind him the denim-clad guy pulled his own weapon from his belt. It was a heavy revolver, and to his credit he brought it up quickly.

Not fast enough. Bolan had dropped to a crouch, swinging the muzzle of the 93-R in anticipation of the guy’s move. He assumed a two-handed Weaver’s stance, centering his target, and hit the guy in the chest. The thug stumbled back, falling half inside the open panel truck, legs jerking in spasms as the 9 mm slugs dug in deep. Bolan hit him with a second burst that burned in under the guy’s chin and tore through to split his skull on exit.

Jake had turned on his heel and was moving for his own car when Bolan lunged forward. He hooked a hand in the weapons dealer’s coat collar and swung him around. The Beretta made a solid, meaty sound as it slammed against Jake’s jaw. The blow knocked him off his feet and he skidded on his knees into the side of the car. Then Bolan was standing over him, jabbing the hot muzzle of the Beretta into the man’s cheek. Jake stared up into the glacial blue of the Executioner’s eyes and saw his own terrified face reflected there.

“The bad things we do in life eventually catch up,” Bolan said. “I’m not going to reflect on your misdemeanors. But I have a couple of questions, and I need fast answers.”

Jake drew his sleeve across his torn and bloody jaw.

“Those two made wrong decisions and won’t get a chance to clear their consciences. How about you, Jake?”

“What do you want?”

“Military ordnance. Where do you source it, Jake?”

“I’m a dead man if I talk.”

“Look at me, Jake. Do I look as if care?”

The Beretta was pressed harder into his cheek.

“Time to think about yourself, Jake. Today isn’t going to get any better.”

“I can see that.”

“Help me, Jake. My patience runs out fast. Who do you get your weapons from?”

“Guy in the military. Orin Cage. He’s based at a main supply depot, in charge of weapons acquisition. He runs a little sideline business.” The words began to tumble out almost as if Jake was in the confessional.

“Answer one question. Who do Soames and Quintain answer to?”

“Fredo Bella. He runs the Chicago division. Believe me, you don’t want to screw with him. He’s the boss in Chicago but even he works for a higher-up man who’s based in New Mexico. There’s also another guy in Chicago. Bella’s paymaster, Guido Bertolli.”

Jake quickly blurted out the rest of the information Bolan needed before lapsing into a sullen silence.

Bolan stepped back. “You work a dirty business, Jake. Nothing that could ever redeem itself in you.”

“You got what you wanted. You happy?”

“Not exactly happy,” Bolan said. “But at least satisfied for the moment.” Then he hit the man on the side of his head with the butt of the Beretta, knocking him unconscious.

Bolan took the cell phone from Soames’s pocket and put in a call to Miami-Dade PD. He told them where they could find the bodies and a consignment of stolen military hardware, plus a weapons dealer who was ready to talk. He also fed them the information about the Orin Cage and military connection, then cut the call. A search of Soames’s jacket provided Bolan with a fat wallet and another cell phone. He put the items away for later examination and bent to pick up the satchel of money. It would help to finance his upcoming mission. He had a long drive ahead of him. Destination Chicago. The Windy City was going to experience an Executioner-style gale that would hopefully sweep away some of its seedier trash.

Bolan made his way back to his parked rental and took the back roads until he was well clear of the area. He made a wide, circuitous drive back into Miami and his hotel. In his room he packed his belongings and called down to the desk, asking for his account to be readied for checkout.

He recalled the wallet he had taken from Soames’s body and emptied the contents on the bed—a couple thousand in cash, multiple credit cards and a single business card. It told Bolan that Guido Bertolli worked out of Chicago with an office in the city. Bertolli’s profession was financial adviser and his office address was displayed below his title, along with his telephone and cell number. Handy information, Bolan decided. It gave him a starting point once he reached Chicago.

Soames’s cell phone offered nothing but a list of stored numbers. The one Bolan found interesting was listed under the name Quintain.

BOLAN MADE his call to Harry Quintain as he traveled the I-65 through Kentucky.