Dragon's Den

Most of what he’d just heard didn’t make sense to Bolan. “So your superiors ordered you to keep it under wraps?”

“Until the other night. You know, it’s a little easier to keep this quiet when the drugs aren’t accompanied by seven corpses aboard a boat owned by one of the most famous actors in Hollywood.”

“Raul Montavo?”

Amherst nodded and expressed distaste. “Yes, but I don’t know why they called him the Latino Angel. I can testify he was anything but.”

“Why’s that?”

“The only reasons we even ran that raid was because of a reliable tip and a very friendly judge. Hell, he’s probably one of the few judges on our side.”

“You’re too young to be that jaded,” Bolan replied easily.

She frowned. “I got a lot on my plate, mister, believe me. There’s more graft in the L.A. County court system than hookers on Hollywood Boulevard.”

Bolan got to his feet. “I don’t doubt you have a lot on your hands, so I’ll keep out of your way and you keep out of mine. But you can bet I’ll look into this further.”

“That a promise or do you really mean it?” Amherst quipped.

“Funny,” Bolan said. “You could help by keeping word of my involvement strictly need-to-know for now.”

She did nothing to hide the derision in her tone as she threw up her hands. “Oh, great, another person who wants to keep this all hush-hush. Oh, well, who would I tell?”

“I don’t want to keep it quiet because I have some hidden agenda,” Bolan said in an even tone. “I just don’t want to attract attention. If there are legit reasons the sheriff has kept a gag on this, fine. But if there’s corruption involved, then it would be better if they didn’t know anything about me until I can determine how deep it goes. Make sense?”

Amherst nodded. “Yes. And I owe you an apology, Cooper. I’m just tired, I guess. It seems like nobody wants to do anything about this.”

“I do,” Bolan said. “Trust me.”

B OLAN SPOTTED THE TAIL in a nondescript sedan as soon as he left the parking lot of the LASD station. It didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been in-country even twelve hours, and nobody outside of Stony Man Farm would know of his existence or mission. That meant one of two things: Amherst had arranged for her people to follow him and see what he had up his sleeve, or someone already had the station under surveillance and Bolan’s sudden arrival sparked their interest.

Bolan bet the latter scenario as the likeliest.

He’d use the next few minutes to decide if the followers were friend or foe. As Bolan merged with traffic on the interstate, he kept an eye on the tail through his rearview mirror and considered his options. Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man’s ace pilot and longtime friend to Bolan, waited at the airport with the plane that had brought them there. Bolan had skipped renting a hotel room; he didn’t figure they’d be long in L.A.

The Executioner didn’t have a hotel, sure, but his tail probably didn’t know that. The soldier quickly formulated his plan and then took the next exit when he spotted a hotel sign. Bolan kept to the outermost exit lane. His eyes flicked to the rearview in time to see the sedan slide into the lane next to his and keep back a couple of car-lengths. The maneuver left no doubt in Bolan’s mind the followers weren’t new to the game.

Bolan spotted the large hotel ahead of him and signaled early enough to make sure his tail saw where he planned to go. He swung into the parking lot and parked in one of the side-lot spaces. The L-shaped hotel was actually split into two sections separated by a breezeway at a right angle to the main office.

Bolan walked into the breezeway and broke into a jog after moving from view of the observers. He reached the other end, then turned right at the end. He followed this causeway to the rear of the hotel and crossed around the windowless back side of the office. Bolan waited about half a minute, then vaulted the eight-foot wall. He dropped to the pavement and skirted the wall to the edge of the lot.

Bolan peered around the wall and quickly spotted the sedan. The driver had pulled into the parking lot of a taco joint directly across from the hotel. It afforded them a virtually unobstructed view of the hotel. It seemed they meant no violent threat to the Executioner—at least not an immediate one—and Bolan planned to make sure it never got that far. He’d learned that sometimes discretion wasn’t the better part of valor, and this was one of those times.

Bolan turned and strolled to the stoplight half a block away. He crossed with the light and then doubled back so he could approach from the rear. When he reached the building next to the taco stand, he circled it and came up on the sedan from the rear. He took the last twenty yards in a crouch and approached on the passenger side. Two men in crew cuts and short-sleeve shirts occupied the front seats. Bolan kept low and quietly tested the rear door handle. Locked.

Bolan went in hard.

He reached into the open window and grabbed the passenger by the collar. With his left hand, he shoved the man to the left and produced the Beretta 93-R in his right fist, pointing it toward the head of the driver.

“You packing?” he asked them.

The passenger yelped something as Bolan’s rock-hard knuckles pressed against his neck, and the driver’s eyes went wide. The men were young and inexperienced. They hadn’t expected their quarry to become the aggressor, and Bolan had taken them by total surprise.

“I asked a question,” Bolan said. “You guys packing?”

“Yeah, yeah,” the driver replied.

“Right or southpaw?” Bolan asked him.

“Say what?”

“Are you right-or left-handed?”

“Right,” he said. “Why?”

“You first, then. Use your left hand and dump the piece out the window.”

“You’re making a big mistake, asshole,” the passenger finally squealed in outrage.

“So is he,” Bolan said, gesturing in his partner’s direction with the muzzle of the Beretta. He returned his attention to the driver. “Last chance. Lose the sidearm or it all ends here.”

“Fine, fine,” he said.

When Bolan heard the pistol hit the pavement outside, he ordered the passenger to carefully hand over his weapon. The guy complied. Bolan immediately recognized the Glock 21. He tucked the pistol at the small of his back, then commanded the pair to put their hands on the dash. He opened the rear door once they had done it and slid to the center of the backseat.

“Okay, let’s have it,” Bolan asked.

“You just stepped in a whole pile o’ shit, pal,” the passenger said. “You’ll be at the top of Homeland Security’s most-wanted list by close of business today.”

“Somehow I don’t think so,” the Executioner replied.

2

“I don’t get it,” Hal Brognola said when Bolan related his encounter with the federal agents. “Why would this interest Homeland Security? In fact, how would they even know about it?”

“No clue. But they admitted their orders were to pressure local authorities to keep this thing under wraps,” Bolan replied. “I kept my cover but it won’t last. I’m sure they’ll make calls. I need them to back off this thing. I don’t want to have to worry about friendlies getting caught in the cross fire if it goes hard.”

Brognola sighed. “You got it. I’ll make sure the order to stand down comes straight from the top. I’m sorry about this, Striker.”

“Not your fault, Hal. This wasn’t on my radar screen, either.”

“So Captain Amherst told you they’ve seized three thousand kilos of high-grade opium, huh?” Brognola recited. “That’s seriously heavy weight.”

“Yeah, and it’s obviously drawing more attention by the moment. That’s why I need to move on this right now before the entire area gets flooded with real DEA.”

“If the press gets wind of this, DEA will be the least of your problems. All the major papers are carrying the yacht-raid story, and you know sooner or later someone’s going to leak the rest of it. Reporters will swarm that town like nobody’s business.”

“Exactly,” the Executioner replied. “And I’m not real big on having my face splashed all over the six-o’clock news.”