appearances, he met with a couple of reps from satellite race teams—teams that leased the previous year’s factory race bikes. Such teams had some factory support—some more than others—but mostly they fended for themselves and were hungry for any sponsorship. By Thursday Cooper had tentative agreements with two teams. More importantly, he’d picked up on an undercurrent of mistrust between Team Free Flow and the other MotoGP organizations.
On Thursday Bolan rode the BMW R1200GS he’d rented in San Francisco to the Free Flow garage to keep his appointment with Botros. The entire San Francisco area became an orgy of motorcycle activity during the week of the big race, and there was no better way for the soldier to blend in than to ride a motorcycle. Plus motorcycles were far more effective at slicing through the dense traffic that descended on the area for the race.
He’d chosen the BMW because it was one of the most agile motorcycles ever built. The big bike was too heavy for serious off-road work. But in the hands of a physically large rider like Bolan, it could scoot down some pretty rough trails if it had to. Bolan had ridden just about every motorcycle built since he began his vigilante war against the Mafia many years ago, and he’d also received training from some of the world’s best on- and off-road motorcycle racers over the years, so he knew how to muscle a big bike over rough terrain.
The Executioner knew damned well that he was being set up, that if this meeting wasn’t a trap, at the very least it would be the prelude to a trap. Botros and his crew might not try to kill him in the garage complex. They might keep a low profile at the track and attack Bolan somewhere off site. Or they might just try to kill him in their garages. But the soldier had made a commitment to recover the stolen plutonium before the terrorists had the chance to use it, and getting closer to the Team Free Flow crew, the only people who knew for sure where the plutonium was located, was the best way he could think of to find it.
Bolan knew that someone could try to kill him at any moment. The soldier had no way of knowing where or when that attempt would take place so he’d have to rely on years of experience and instincts honed to an almost preternatural degree to survive the next few days. That, and the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle on his hip and the Beretta 93-R machine pistol he carried in the shoulder rig beneath his jacket.
Bolan parked the BMW near the Team Free Flow garages just in time to see Eddie Anderson being escorted from the building complex by a couple of Middle Eastern-looking men. One could have been Scarface’s brother, or at least his cousin. The Arabs weren’t having an easy time of it. Most successful motorcycle racers were built like jockeys, and Anderson was no exception; he stood maybe five-four in his racing boots and couldn’t have weighed much, but he was giving the two Arabs as good as he got.
“Get your damned hands off of me!” Anderson told Scarface’s cousin. “I know he was murdered and I know you guys did it!” The man tried to push Anderson to the ground but the wiry little rider ducked and grabbed the man’s wrist, flipped his arm around behind his back, and pushed him face first into the tarmac. The other Arab grabbed Anderson before he could pounce on the fallen man and flung him into Bolan.
“Are you all right?” Bolan asked. Without answering, Anderson spun around to face the two men from the Free Flow garage. The man on the ground got up, his face scraped up from hitting the rough pavement. The two contemplated attacking Anderson, but when they saw Bolan, a look of recognition crossed their faces and they scurried back into the garage.
“Those bastards killed Darrick,” Anderson said. “They killed my brother.”
“Are you sure about that?” Bolan asked.
“There’s no way in hell that Darrick’s crash was an accident. There’s no way that brake line came loose without someone disconnecting it. No way. Those sons of bitches killed my brother and I can prove it.”
“How can you prove it?” Bolan asked. Anderson looked up at Bolan, suspicion in his eyes. “This is not a good place to talk,” Bolan said. “Can I buy you a drink later?”
“I don’t drink.” After watching alcohol and drugs destroy Darrick’s career, Eddie avoided the culture of hedonism that swirled around the racing circuit with an almost fanatical zeal, focusing on riding with the concentration of a Buddhist monk. The offer only increased his mistrust of the large stranger. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting.” He rushed off before Bolan could question him further.
Bolan had no doubt that Eddie was lying about the meeting, but he couldn’t fault the kid for not trusting him, especially if what he said about his brother was true. Bolan made a note to speak further with the young man, but for now the soldier did have a meeting, one he couldn’t afford to miss.
THE ABRASIVE YOUNG American racer reminded Jameed Botros of his older brother, and as with the older Anderson, Botros felt it his duty to Allah to kill the man. People believed that Eddie Anderson differed from his brother, that he was not a slave to the vices that had destroyed Darrick’s career, but Botros knew the younger man deceived those around him. He was first and foremost an American, and like all Americans he was weak. Botros had wanted to kill him the minute he laid eyes on him during the winter tire tests.
Now he might have a reason, but first he would have to clear it with bin Osman. Botros had gotten away with making a unilateral decision regarding the older Anderson brother; he dared not move against the younger brother without express permission from his superior. Botros had to present the Malaysian with a good reason why Eddie Anderson should be killed, and that is exactly what the impetuous youngster was giving him.
“You killed him!” the young rider shouted at Botros. Botros just smiled, knowing that when he reported Anderson’s behavior to his supervisor, he would receive permission to eliminate the boy. “I know you killed him, and I can prove it!”
Anderson lunged toward Botros, but before he reached the Saudi, three sets of hands grabbed him and slammed him down on his back. Botros looked down at the face. The rage that twisted Anderson’s features made him appear much older than his twenty-one years. “I am sure you are mistaken,” Botros said. “It makes no sense that we would kill your brother.”
“I don’t give a shit if it makes sense or not! I know you did it!”
“Your brother’s death was an accident. A tragic accident. His brakes failed.”
“His brakes didn’t fail. You loosened the brake lines and I can prove it!”
Botros had had enough of this foolish American. “Throw him out,” he ordered his men in Arabic. For a small man, Anderson put up an impressive fight, but he was outnumbered four to one and after a drawn-out struggle, they ultimately ejected him from the garage complex. Before he was out the door Botros was in his office, calling bin Osman.
“We had an unexpected visitor this morning,” Botros told his supervisor.
“Who might that be?” bin Osman asked.
“Eddie Anderson.”
“Ah, the grieving brother.”
“It would be more correct to call him the raging brother,” Botros said. “He practically attacked me.”
“Does he know?”
“He does. He even knows how we did it. He says he has proof, though how that is possible I don’t know.”
Bin Osman paused for a moment. “This young man could disrupt our plans.”
“Do you want my men to take care of him?” Botros asked.
