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The soldier rose and went to the reinforced doors of the weapons locker in the aft compartment. He punched in a nine-character alphanumeric code on a keypad attached to the heavy steel and the latch came free. The weapons reflected the dim blue lights recessed in the sides and top of the cabinet with an oily gleam. The complement included an M-16 A-4/M-203 combo, M-4 5.56 mm carbine and one FN FNC submachine gun. The armory also held a SIG-Sauer SSG 3000 sniper rifle, a spare Beretta 93-R with twin clips and a dozen Diehl DM-51 grenades. Finally, Bolan’s eyes rested briefly on the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. This gas-operated hand cannon utilized a rotating bolt system and fired 300-grain rounds at a muzzle velocity just shy of 1,500 feet per second.
Bolan picked the Beretta and FN FNC for this trip, as well as a few DM-51 grenades. He’d be entering gangland territory, which meant some autofire and a few low-yield antipersonnel grenades might come in handy, but heavy assault weapons probably wouldn’t be necessary. In fact, he didn’t even know if he had a target yet. He could only hope Stony Man’s intelligence would point him in the right direction.
After drawing his selections, Bolan secured the armory doors, then left the plane with his utility bag. He crossed the hangar to the living quarters, where he found a shower. He stripped, turned on the hot water and enjoyed the high-pressure spray, washing away the grime and dirt of the day. He then turned the nozzle to allow about two minutes of icy spray to cool his body. Bolan finished showering, toweled dry and then donned his skintight blacksuit and slid his feet into a pair of combat boots with vulcanized neoprene soles. He then returned to the plane.
Grimaldi jerked his thumb at a computer terminal set into the two-seater communications panel against the starboard side. “Your transmission from Bear just arrived.”
Bolan nodded and took a seat at the computer terminal. He punched in his access code, and the information immediately displayed across two separate LCD screens. One screen rendered photographs and dossiers taken from LASD evidence computers, with detailed reports of every raid where they had recovered drugs matching the parameters Stony Man already had. Bolan shook his head, unable to resist grinning at Kurtzman’s ability to hack straight into any computer network to get the intelligence Bolan needed. The Executioner scanned the information, which basically confirmed what Amherst had said.
“Well, at least Amherst is telling the truth,” Bolan said aloud.
“What’s that?” Grimaldi asked.
“This Rhonda Amherst,” Bolan replied. “She’s the Marina del Rey station chief with LASD. It looks like she gave me the straight story.”
Grimaldi just hummed an acknowledgment as Bolan turned his attention to the second screen. He tapped the paging key and quickly identified the key information he’d been looking for. Records from the Gang Support Section of the LAPD currently listed Lavon Hayes as the leader of the Bloods, but his current whereabouts were unknown. The file gave too many possible locations, so Bolan mentally filed the information for future reference and pressed on. And then the Executioner got a hit. The GSS briefs listed Antoine Pratt as being Hayes’s second-in-command. Already Pratt had spent the better part of his life in juvenile for everything from petty theft to drug possession, and he currently had a half-dozen warrants pending for additional crimes.
A real pillar of the community, Bolan thought. “Looks like this intel from Bear might pan out,” he said as he stored the downloaded intelligence and put the computer into hibernation. He went to where he’d stashed his equipment and geared up.
“Where you going?”
“It’s time to find out who was supposed to be on the receiving end of these shipments.”
“Going to knock on some doors, are you?” Grimaldi asked with a knowing wink.
“More like kick them down,” the Executioner replied.
M ACK B OLAN PLACED his first kick in the most literal sense.
The soldier put his foot against the front door of Antoine Pratt’s two-story flat in Ladera Heights. He stood out like a specter, his blacksuit stark against the cream-colored walls illuminated by mood lights. Mostly warm earth tones set off the decor, which looked more luxurious than its run-down exterior. Pratt had probably tried to keep up appearances with the other houses along the block so his didn’t stand out in any way. Bolan swept the area with the muzzle of his FNC and locked on viable targets almost immediately.
A pair of house guards in flannel shirts and bandanas came out of their loungers in the living room and reached for pistols tucked in their waistbands. Neither of the young men seemed to care Bolan already had them dead to rights.
Bolan squeezed the trigger and the FNC chugged in his hands. He couldn’t miss at that range. The hail of 5.56 mm NATO slugs stitched a path across their bellies, tearing through vital organs and sending blood spray in every direction. They twisted inward and collided with each other before dying on their feet. Their corpses hit the carpeted floor with dull thuds.
The Executioner bounded up the flight of steps to his right after clearing his six. He reached the top of the steps and immediately went prone on the upper landing when he caught motion in his periphery. Two more gangbangers opened up on him with pistols. One had enough sense to stay behind the cover of an archway, but the other practically strutted toward Bolan, his pistol held high and sideways as he triggered round after round. The warrior rolled over once, came to his knee and triggered a corkscrew burst. High-velocity slugs riddled the hoodlum’s body and knocked him off his feet. The dead youth’s partner popped off a few more hasty rounds before ducking behind the archway.
Bolan detached a Diehl DM-51 from his load-bearing harness. The German-made hand grenade had proved one of the most effective tools of Bolan’s trade. The hexagonal shape of the grenade body contained more than six thousand 2 mm steel balls packed into a PETN high explosive, making it a superbly effective offensive blast device. When requiring defensive capabilities, the Executioner could attach a plastic sleeve to the grenade with a simple half-twist locking motion, thereby causing a shower of superheated steel fragments to disperse in every direction for antipersonnel effects.
Bolan attached the sleeve, yanked the pin and threw himself into a closed door to get out of the hallway. The warrior didn’t see the grenade explode but he felt it; the resulting screams from his opponent told the rest of the tale. Bolan sensed a presence behind him and spun as he dropped to one knee, finger poised on the FNC trigger. A woman cloaked only in a skimpy towel emerged from a door in the wake of steam clouds and shrieked at the sight of him.
Bolan shook his head, got to his feet and jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom. “Back inside.”
She didn’t argue with him.
Bolan stepped into the hallway and advanced along it. He could sense the quarry somewhere ahead; his instincts had taken over the moment he entered the house. He could almost smell the fear on his enemy. Pratt had no intention of running. If anything, Bolan suspected the guy would make a stand right here on his own turf, even if it might kill him, and that made it doubly important Bolan take him alive. Pratt remained the only one who could tell the Executioner why so much dope had been funneled into Los Angeles over the past couple of months.
Bolan began a room-to-room sweep, the FNC ready, but met no further resistance. He also didn’t find Antoine Pratt. After completing his search, Bolan headed for the stairs. He made it halfway down before the front door burst wide-open and a trio of hoods in gang colors came through the door followed by a fourth who matched the photo of Pratt in Bolan’s intelligence from Stony Man. Two of the gangbangers had their hands full with cases of beer.
All four wore the same expression of surprise upon seeing the Executioner, but none of them were ready to deal with the threat. Bolan leveled the FNC in their direction and neatly shot holes through the cases of beer they carried. The man walking next to Pratt—who obviously acted as bodyguard to the Bloods lieutenant—seemed to be the only one prepared for action as he reached beneath the loose T-shirt he wore and produced a semiautomatic pistol.
Bolan triggered a 3-round burst that blew the man’s skull apart and showered his companions with gray matter.
The remaining three black youths froze in place.
“Grab the floor!” Bolan ordered the trio.
They immediately dropped what remained of their brews and did as ordered. Bolan continued down the steps and relieved them of their pistols before securing their hands behind them with plastic riot cuffs. That done, Bolan hauled Pratt to his feet and tossed him face-first against a nearby wall. He placed the hot muzzle of the FNC at the base of Pratt’s skull.
“What are you, the feds?” Pratt asked. He made a good attempt to hide the fear in his eyes, but it didn’t fool Bolan for a moment. “I want a lawyer.”
“Shut up, Pratt,” Bolan said. “Here’s how this goes. I ask questions and you give me answers. If I even think you’re lying, I kill you. Simple enough?”
Pratt just nodded, the hatred evident in his features. Bolan didn’t give a damn right at the moment. He would have taken the opportunity to clean out the Bloods altogether had he not felt it would detract from his mission. The key here would be to get to the source of the opium imports. Then, and only then, would he be able to shut down the pipeline. The Bloods couldn’t profit from the supply if he neutralized the supplier.
“Word has it you’re running this outfit with Lavon Hayes out of the picture,” Bolan said. “I know you’re on the receiving end of this recent influx of drugs. Tell me who’s supplying it.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Pratt sputtered. “We haven’t seen a dime of that stuff, which means somebody’s going to end up dead because they’re cutting into our territory.”
“The only one that’ll wind up dead is you if I don’t get a better answer.” Bolan’s tone implied the validity of the threat.
“Then I’m dead, whitey, because I don’t got no answers. Whoever’s running this stuff through here had better watch their ass. L.A. belongs to the Bloods.”
“L.A. belongs to law-abiding citizens,” Bolan said. “So here’s a new slogan for your graffiti artists—stay out of my way and end this business. Otherwise I’m going to come back here and punch your ticket. Get it?”
“I thought you was going to kill me.”
Bolan’s cold and friendless smile matched the tone in his voice. “Not today.”
“You leave me alive, you won’t be long for this life.”
“Yeah, sure,” Bolan said. “If I hear you’re still in operation a week from now, it’ll be you who’s not long for this life.”
Bolan grabbed the drug-dealing gang member by his collar once more and took him to the floor. He then turned and left through the front door. He reached the rental he’d left parked a half block away within a minute and soon reached the expressway.
The probe hadn’t revealed much in the way of viable information, but Bolan now believed these drugs had nothing to do with the Bloods. He’d taken the mere chance that a grasp at straws might lead him somewhere; instead, he’d come away with more questions than answers. The Executioner had been in L.A. six hours, and he still didn’t know where the opium had come from or why somebody would have wasted seven people over a couple hundred kilos, especially when they had already managed to get twenty times that inside the country in the past sixty days. Bolan hoped Stony Man’s far-reaching network came up with something more solid.
In the meantime, he still had a couple more doors on his list.
3
Even from early childhood, Rhonda Amherst knew she wanted to be a police officer.
She didn’t necessarily believe in destiny, but she felt something like that every time she thought of her inevitable entry into law enforcement. On her twelfth birthday she’d become copresident of the Neighborhood Watch Program of suburban L.A., and by fifteen she had joined the Sheriff’s Explorer Program. By eighteen she’d been accepted to UCLA under a scholarship, and during her years in college she served with the Big Sister program. Amherst graduated UCLA with honors at age twenty-two holding a degree in criminal justice.
That’s when life really began for Amherst. She went straight into the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Recruit Training Center, graduated top of her class, and soon she returned to patrol the same streets of the neighborhood where she had grown up. Amherst volunteered for every special assignment or training course she could manage when they came along—few and far between as they were—but it eventually paid off and got her the notice of the entire LASD and eventually led to her promotion to sergeant. One of her favorite volunteer jobs involved boat patrols done in extra shifts. From a very early age she had taken to the water like a bird dog. Before she knew it, her CO recommended Sergeant Amherst for a position as his lieutenant when he took the captaincy at Marina del Rey Station. Four short years later, he suffered a stroke that disabled him permanently, and since Amherst happened to be testing for a captain’s slot, she seemed a shoo-in for the position. She had just completed her second year as captain, not only one of the youngest captains in the department but also the first female to achieve that rank so quickly.
What had gained Rhonda Amherst the most respect in her position was that she’d accomplished everything through hard work. She didn’t subscribe to the political maneuvering that involved others. Most of her subordinates and fellow officers would have described her as easygoing and friendly, a leader’s leader who really cared about each and every officer under her command, but also as a tough and no-nonsense cop. She held a second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, and possessed an unrivaled record of felony arrests.
All of her success came from the internal drive to protect others with integrity and honor. That same drive caused her to put down the bottle of scented bath crystals she had just started to pour into her garden tub and go answer the jangling telephone. She’d heard a little activity over the scanner but chose to ignore it as it didn’t sound like anything going down in her district. Beside the fact, she tried to reserve at least one night a week where she didn’t think about work, time she chose to devote to herself.
“Yes?” she said into the receiver.
“It’s me.”
“Nesto, to what do I owe such a pleasure?” Amherst teased him. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks. You don’t call, you don’t write—”
“This is more of an official call, I’m afraid.”
Amherst had known Nesto Lareza since high school. They were just about as best friends as a man and woman could be next to taking it to the romantic level, which they had once tried in an exercise that failed miserably. Amherst could hear the tone in Lareza’s voice, and he didn’t sound happy.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m here at the house of Antoine Pratt,” Lareza said. “Got called here after someone dialed 9-1-1 and reported shots fired and what sounded like an explosion.”
“Pratt lives in Ladera Heights,” she said, recalling it almost instantaneously from her memory. She’d made it a habit to be familiar with the movements of certain elements. “Did somebody finally take him out? Another rival gang or something? If so, I’m throwing a party.”
“This wasn’t a rival gang,” he said. “Just one guy.”
Amherst felt her blood immediately run cold. She couldn’t explain why, but for some reason Lareza’s statement made her think of Matt Cooper. Amherst had called to check Agent Cooper’s credentials as soon as he left, and the Department of Justice confirmed not only his status with the DEA but his authorization to investigate the sudden flood of drugs into Los Angeles. And further, people at the “highest level would appreciate it if Captain Amherst cooperated with Cooper’s investigation in every way possible.”
Amherst tried to keep her voice neutral. “So why call me?”
“Well, Pratt’s not talking but one of his boys got diarrhea of the mouth as soon as we arrived. This guy had some interesting things to tell me, but I don’t want to get into any more of that over the phone. I think we should meet.”
“You told me this was more official.”
Lareza sighed deeply. “Look, it is official but it’s also kind of unofficial, what I have to tell you. Can you just meet me, Rhonda?”
“Sure,” she said. “Tell me where and when.”
“You remember Cappie’s?”
“Of course,” she said, recalling the renovated fishing wharf turned restaurant that had become a popular hangout for UCLA alumni.
“I get off at eleven, so I’ll meet you there about quarter-to-twelve. Okay?”
“I’ll be there,” she said, and hung up.
It had been one of the weirdest calls she could ever remember receiving from Lareza, but also one of the most intriguing. She couldn’t fathom why whatever had transpired at the home of Antoine Pratt would have anything to do with her. Apparently Lareza felt otherwise, and she’d learned to trust her friend’s judgment. Something Lareza heard obviously led him to believe it would be of interest to Amherst, and yet sensitive enough he didn’t want to draw undue attention.
Amherst could only recall confiding in him recently on one topic, and that had been the sheriff’s unwillingness to pursue the major influx of opium into L.A. County neighborhoods. Now, with the DEA involved, it only stood to reason the stuff would start going public and the need for secrecy made naught. But on the other hand, maybe the sheriff’s position hadn’t changed. Maybe more existed here than Amherst believed, and maybe this involved more than just drugs and gangs.
Amherst would have to keep her wits about her, because in a very short time she knew she’d need to call on them under the direst circumstances.
T HE FISH BATTER and din of voices were the only two things thicker than the smoke in Cappie’s Lounge.
An observer might have concluded the lounge catered mostly to the yuppie clientele, but, in fact, Cappie’s served a mixer of rowdy college students—mostly they congregated in the bar and pool area.
The alumni or faculty—the adults, in other words—confined their activities to the restaurant. In either case, Amherst had come to adore the lounge. For one thing, most cops wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place, except in an undercover role. That meant it unlikely anybody would spy on her there or she’d run into anyone uncomfortable.
Lareza studied Amherst over the rim of his glass. He’d been watching her intently as she devoured her third helping of fish. He seemed almost stone-faced except for that damn smirk that occasionally played across his lips. The fact Amherst couldn’t figure out why he kept staring at her with that ridiculous expression only served to irritate her. Finally, Amherst put down her fork, wiped away the grease from her lips and washed her food down with a swig from an ice-cold bottle of beer.
“I hate to eat alone,” she said. “Why didn’t you order anything?”
“I told you I’m not hungry.”
Amherst dropped her napkin on the table next to her plate, grabbed the bottle in one hand, stuffed the other in her pocket and then leaned back. She wiped the bottle across her forehead. The temperature seemed to have gone up ten degrees since they arrived forty minutes earlier.
“So, what was so damn hush-hush you couldn’t tell me on the phone?”
Lareza sat forward and put both forearms flat on the table. His hands visibly tightened as he dropped his tone some, making it much more difficult to hear him over the music blaring from the jukebox speakers mounted strategically throughout the establishment. His dark brown eyes gleamed under the diffuser-shade lamp that hung over their table. He’d always been a handsome guy, partly rugged with his dark skin and partly teddy bear with those dimples. He wore his black hair short and slicked back.
“The guy I questioned tonight, he’s a bodyguard and enforcer for Antoine Pratt.”
“You already mentioned that,” Amherst replied with a nod. “What’s his story?”
“His story is this mystery perp scared the living shit out of him. Said the guy was a big son of a bitch, dressed up like some type of commando. Apparently he just walked in and started shooting the place up and blowing it all to hell. Preliminary evidence says there were automatic weapons and high explosives used in Pratt’s house. Crime scene thinks possibly grenades.”
“And you believed him?” Amherst asked as she cocked one eyebrow.
“Hell, yeah, I believed him!” Lareza noticed her look around and lowered his voice self-consciously. “Sorry.”
Amherst could already see where this conversation would end up, but she couldn’t ignore what Lareza had just revealed. “Automatic weapons aren’t anything new here. But military-grade explosives, that sounds a bit more serious.”
“You’re goddamn right it is,” Lareza said. “And I’ll tell you something else. This wasn’t done in gangland style one bit. This guy hit the place like a professional all the way.”
“What did he look like?”
“Tall with dark hair. Pratt’s guy couldn’t really get a look at his face because I guess he had it smeared with shoe polish or something, but he remembered the guy’s eyes were blue because they stood out so much. Said he’d never seen colder eyes on someone than this bastard.”
Amherst could feel that sensation go through her again, like ice pulsing in her veins. Other than the commando outfit and face paint, the guy matched Matt Cooper’s description perfectly: big, dark hair and some very intense blue eyes. Yes, she couldn’t deny that sounded exactly like Cooper, and moreover she couldn’t deny how betrayed she felt. At that moment, she had an even bigger problem. While she’d known Lareza for a lot of years she didn’t entirely trust him. In the past he had kept her other secrets, though, and if she needed a friend now was the time.
“That guy sounds like a dead ringer for a man who came to my office late this afternoon.”
Something changed in Lareza’s expression. “What man?”
“Well, I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody, but you know how to keep your mouth shut. You can’t breathe a word of it to anybody, Nesto, I’m telling you straight.”
“I swear, I won’t say nothing,” Lareza replied, crossing himself and kissing the crucifix hanging from his neck. “But what the hell are you being so damn secretive about?”
“Because I don’t know where any of this is going yet, and I don’t want anyone jumping to conclusions and doing something stupid.”
“It would be a little hard to do something stupid when I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“This guy who came to see me, his name is Matt Cooper. He’s an agent with the DEA…or so he claims.”
“The feds? Why would they be so interested in any of this? It’s a local problem.”
“Because of the volume of drugs that have come into the greater Los Angeles area in just the past three months.” Amherst looked around, took a swig of beer and continued, “There’s been a lot more than you know about, Nesto. A lot more. I’m talking major weight, not just a few hundred kilos being pushed around.”
“Great. So how come I don’t know anything about this?” Lareza asked.
“For the same reason you didn’t know about any of the other stuff I’ve told you about,” she said. “The sheriff and city politicians have been trying to keep it quiet. They didn’t just threaten my job, like I told you before. They threatened to go to a judge and get a gag order.”
“Why didn’t they?”
Amherst shrugged and said, “I managed to convince them I’d remain silent, I guess.”
“Except for what you’ve told me,” Lareza replied. He cracked a smile.
She smiled and nodded. “Except for what I told you, yes.”