Killing Trade

There were no other men in sight. Bolan took in the landscape with one sweeping glance. There were several park buildings nearby, not to mention more than a few civilians going about their business. Some were sitting and reading. Others were playing with dogs or simply walking. Any of them could be plants to back up Caqueta. He could have troops stationed nearby, too.

It would not be the first time the Executioner had walked into an ambush to trigger it before rolling right over the top of it.

Ruiz had his hands in the pockets of his trench coat as Bolan and Burnett approached. They stopped a few feet from the park bench. Caqueta leaned forward on his cane but made no move to rise.

“So, Detective Burnett,” Caqueta said, smiling like a shark. “You have come.” His voice was a rich baritone, slightly accented. “And you bring a friend. Who is this large fellow?”

“That’s really not—” Burnett began.

“You were instructed to come alone,” Caqueta said sharply. “Yet you bring another. Explain to me why I do not simply leave now and let you take your chances.”

“Cooper,” Bolan told him. “Justice Department.”

“Justice?” Caqueta’s eyes widened. “And what would you know about justice, Mr. Cooper? Is it justice that my people are gunned down in broad daylight in the most prosperous part of this, the crown jewel of the East Coast? Is it justice that I must take ever more drastic means to protect them, to protect my family, to protect myself?”

“Spare me the tale of woe,” Burnett said scornfully. “You and El Cráneo have been trying to take each other out for years. Now you’ve found a way to do it while endangering even more people. It’s not enough for you that innocent men, women and children get caught in the line of fire while your family and Taveras’s people gun for each other. Now you’ve got weapons guaranteed to cut up anyone within sight of your murders.”

“Ah,” Caqueta said thoughtfully. “You speak of the special bullets.”

“No shit, Caqueta,” Burnett said. “I speak of the special bullets. I know your organization isn’t faring well in your war with El Cráneo, either. That’s why you’re not going to do anything but sit right here and tell me what you wanted to tell me. You wouldn’t have called if you weren’t desperate.”

Caqueta shifted uneasily on the edge of the bench. Behind him, Ruiz bristled, his dark eyes flitting angrily from Burnett to Bolan and back again. Bolan watched as the detective worked Caqueta verbally. The man was good. Bolan’s already high estimation of Burnett rose accordingly.

“It is true,” Caqueta said reluctantly, staring at his feet, “that my enemies conspire against me and use El Cráneo to do this terrible thing.”

“Meaning, they’re beating you,” Burnett interpreted.

Caqueta looked up at him sharply. “No, they are not,” he said. “They have, however, successfully convinced the supplier of the bullets to sell the lion’s share to them, those sons of pigs.”

“So you’re outgunned,” Burnett said.

Caqueta shrugged. Behind him, Ruiz continued to glare. It was obvious he did not approve of the meeting.

“What do you want, Caqueta?” Burnett asked bluntly. “You called and said you wanted to deal. Well, deal. What have you got that I want?” Bolan looked from the tall detective to Caqueta. The answer was obvious.

“I can tell you how and where I purchased my supply of the bullets,” Caqueta said. “Of course, this is all hypothetical. I would admit to nothing. I know of no bullets, none at all, when it comes to…to the record, you see?”

“I see,” Burnett said grimly. “We look the other way and you help us put the supplier away.”

“More or less.” Caqueta nodded. “I can lead you to a certain fellow who brokered the sales with me and with Taveras, and he will lead you to your precious bullets.”

“What assurances do we have that your information is legitimate?” Burnett asked.

“I have little choice,” Caqueta said frankly. “To compete with El Cráneo my people must have weaponry to rival their own. Our supply—the supply we do not have, of course—of the ammunition is dwindling. Taveras has increased his own stockpiles. El Cráneo is planning something, something very big. It is the way they think, the way they operate. They plan to show me, to teach me—me!—a lesson. They will also show you and your people that you are powerless to stop them.”

“Give me a name,” Burnett demanded.

Ruiz turned to his boss. “Jefe, no! Give them that, and—”

“Silence!” Caqueta roared.

He turned back to Burnett. “The man’s name is West.”

“Too late,” Burnett told him. “We’re ahead of you. West is dead.”

“Is he, now?” Caqueta said, unimpressed. “Not much of a surprise. A man like that, a man meddling in so many different affairs of life and death. Such a man must have many enemies, no?”

“You have nothing for me, then,” Burnett said.

“Do not be so quick to dismiss me,” Caqueta said, his voice hard again. “Either your people are not as thorough as mine, or NLI is not as forthcoming with the law as it might be.”

“What do you know about Norris Labs?” Bolan put in. Caqueta eyed the big soldier, his expression stern.

“I know that this West quit some time ago, some months before my people made the first purchases of his very useful, very powerful bullets for our weapons. And I know that he quit after another man, a much more significant man, was fired. This fellow was a researcher, a developer of arms. It would seem, my sources tell me, that this man was full of great and useful ideas. He was unappreciated by his employers, and when he complained of as much, they deemed him too troublesome and sent him away. West was his assistant at NLI. It would seem he was loyal to the man, not the company. Or perhaps he was loyal only to money, and was offered more than his former employers would give. That is often the way, is it not?”

“Why do you know all this?” Burnett asked.

“Would you not look into the men on whom you staked the fate of your family, your business, your honor?” Caqueta shrugged. “West contacted us after the first sales were made to El Cráneo. He arranged for a demonstration. He asked that I send one of my bulletproof limousines—and a driver of whom I was not terribly fond. He found some piece of street trash, gave him a magazine full of bullets for his pistol. When my driver arrived at the meet, he was killed immediately. The bullets passed through the armored car and through a fire hydrant nearby.”

“So you had no choice but to escalate the war,” Burnett said skeptically.

“None,” Caqueta said. “West told me in no uncertain terms just how much ammunition my enemies had purchased. It was only a matter of time. We—hypothetically, of course—armed ourselves accordingly. But a few months later, he stopped answering our messages. El Cráneo grew bolder, more vicious. I lost more men even as I took down theirs. We are running out of the special bullets. El Cráneo had obviously cut a deal with West, offered him more than I could.”

“They’re winning the war,” Burnett said.

Caqueta shrugged again. “They do not have to. You can stop this. Things can be…shall we say, much more calm. More like they used to be.”

“While you continue shipping your poison,” Burnett said.

“I do not force it up anyone’s nose or into anyone’s veins,” Caqueta said. “I am interested in business, not war.”

Burnett sighed. “Like you,” he said, “I don’t know what choice I have. Let’s get this straight, though. I’m not making any promises, Caqueta. If I could nail you to the wall, I would do it.”

Caqueta laughed. “But of course you would, Detective Burnett. That is what makes you safe. You are predictable. As long as I am not stupid enough to give you evidence you can use against me in court, you are no threat to me. And as long as you have no such evidence, I am no threat to you.”

“All right,” Burnett nodded. “We understand each other. Give me the name.”

“The man you seek,” Caqueta said, “is—”

Something caught Bolan’s attention. Reflexes honed over years of battle kicked in. Whether it was a simple shift in the wind, or some other subconscious cue, something was wrong.

“Down!” Bolan yelled. He tackled Burnett, just as Luis Caqueta’s head exploded.

They heard the gunshot as Caqueta’s nearly headless body fell forward onto the ground before the bench. There was a single, still moment in which Razor Ruiz, splattered with his boss’s blood, looked up with wide eyes. He glanced down at Caqueta’s body and to the ground behind the bench, where a tiny blade smoldered.

“Treachery!” he shouted. From within his trench coat he brought up a pistol-gripped Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun.

“Go!” Bolan told Burnett, drawing his Beretta.