happily. “Dude, we totally want her on the team. Sophie, you want to join the home team?”
“The winning team?” Bolan added.
“I...” Savacool was literally at a loss for words. “I’d have to take that up with my superiors.”
Bolan took out a blank business card and wrote two phone numbers on it. “You can direct any questions you may have to the top number.”
Savacool took the card. She was FBI and she knew the Washington, D.C., 202 area code on the first one like an old friend. “And the bottom one?”
“You can call me anytime.”
Savacool nodded, then she stood and left the conference room.
Kaino nodded judiciously. “She likes you.”
Bolan took the flash drive and plugged it into his phone. “Who doesn’t?”
“Salami?” Kaino suggested.
“He just doesn’t know me well enough yet.” Bolan’s phone peeped at him. The Farm’s own cybernetic wunderkind, Akira Tokaido, had developed the phone’s security suite personally, and Tokaido’s security applications examined the flash drive for bugs, malware or any kind of FBI shenanigans and proclaimed the files were clean. Bolan hit Send and the info went straight to Kurtzman back in the Computer Room in Virginia. “Let’s go.”
Kaino fell into formation with Bolan. They were a pair of large and dangerous-looking men, and FBI personnel unconsciously moved to get out of their way.
Kaino sighed as they reached the foyer and his FBI adventure came to a close. “You think Savacool will join the winning team?”
“Definitely.”
The Miami afternoon heat hit them like a wall as they stepped out of the FBI office and crossed the parking lot. “What now?” Kaino asked.
“I have people processing the information Agent Savacool gave us. They’ll contact me when they have anything useful.” Bolan glanced up at the sun and knew it was about noon. “You know a good place to eat?”
“I know a place in Little San Juan that makes goat stew like murder, man.”
“On me.”
“Cool.”
They stopped in front of Bolan’s ride. The shiny black Signature L Lincoln Town Car had been violated. Bolan took in the almost childlike graffito of a crocodile painted in electric-pink spray paint across his hood. Kaino spit in disgust. Some genuine dread crept into his voice. “I told you he’d be coming for you.”
The noontime, midsummer Miami air was brutally hot, heavy and still. Bolan sniffed it. “You smell that?”
Kaino’s nose wrinkled and his face made a fist of disgust. “Yeah, I smell it, and I told you! Didn’t I?”
Bolan slowly nodded. “You did.” Bolan tasted the turgid, humid air again—the two entwined scents were unmistakable. One was the acrid, burned metal by way of nail-polish remover smell of iodine.
The other was the stench of rotting flesh.
Bolan punched in Savacool’s business card number from memory. She answered on the first ring, and had apparently memorized Bolan’s number, as well. “What’s happening, Cooper?”
“I’m going to need your parking-lot surveillance video, specifically the south side, from within the last forty-five minutes.”
“I have been told to give you my full cooperation. However my superiors have been adamant that I report all contacts with you.”
“I feel you,” Bolan replied.
Savacool snorted. “Please state the nature of your emergency, Mr. Cooper.”
“Cocosino just tagged my ride.”
Every ounce of fun dropped from Savacool’s voice. “Oh my God...”
CHAPTER SIX
Little San Juan, Miami
The goat stew was excellent, and the restaurant’s little patio was shady and cool, but only Bolan seemed to be truly enjoying it. Kaino and Savacool regarded Bolan gravely over their plates. The agent shook her head. “I’ll give you credit, Cooper. You know how to pick your friends, but you sure know how to make some serious enemies.”
Bolan sopped up goat gravy with an immense chunk of Puerto Rican water bread. “They’re complementary talents.”
“Well, I have to give you this, too. You gave Miami law enforcement our first picture of Cocosino.”
Bolan watched the FBI security camera footage again on his phone. The video clip wasn’t much to go on. A man in filthy black jeans, filthy black combat boots and a filthy black hoodie with a baseball cap underneath that hid his face had walked up, tagged Bolan’s Town Car and walked away. Gloves and a black bandanna and dark glasses completed his camouflage. It was of interest that Cocosino had violated Bolan’s car in broad daylight in an FBI parking lot. “You don’t mess with a man’s ride.”
“That’s just wrong,” Kaino agreed.
Bolan watched the video again. The FBI had a swell suite of cameras covering all the angles. “I’m figuring five-seven? He couldn’t be more than 150 pounds dripping wet.”
“We ran identification software on the tape. The computer puts him at about those measurements.”
Kaino sipped his coffee with little pleasure. “Don’t be fooled by his size. That junkie piece of shit has left a trail of bodies across Miami.”
Bolan wasn’t selling the killer short. He had found out long ago that it wasn’t the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog. Worst of all was one with the gift of emptiness. A killer who didn’t care was as dangerous as they came.
“Sophie, you say he does most of his damage with a machete?”
“That’s his preferred MO,” Savacool confirmed. “But he’s also made some serious mayhem with a .44 Magnum when he’s had multiple targets.”
“Does he take heads?”
“You’d think he would,” Kaino muttered. “That’s real popular with the Mexican cartels these days, but no, our boy prefers to chop his victims beyond recognition. Even without the stench, everyone recognizes a Cocosino crime scene. What I want to know is, how does he pull his vanishing act looking and smelling like that?”
“Probably goes back and lies in his grave until the next job comes along,” Savacool said. “Man’s a goddamn ghoul if you ask me.”
“You’re not far off the mark,” Bolan said. “This guy doesn’t go out. He doesn’t have friends. Wherever he’s holed up is most likely not much more than a hole. Cocosino only lives for three things—to kill, get paid for it and fix. He most likely has a handler who transports him and
