hostiles. Everything looked pacific in the tranquil green field of display. When he got to the scene, he checked his fallen men first. All dead.
It looked as if they’d been caught off guard. They probably thought the real action was unfolding down the dirt road. The hostiles were all dead, too, and Lassiter dragged the bodies to the side of the road and quickly went through their pockets, but found nothing in the way of IDs. He did a cursory search of their van as well, again finding nothing in the way of traceable identifiers. This was beginning to take on all the earmarks of a Company operation. He did find a GSP with this location blinking. Somebody had planted a tracker on either the semi or his van.
But who? And why? Although the why might take a bit of figuring, he already had a good idea about the who.
All that would have to wait a bit longer, he thought. He had a mess that he had to clean up.
Bolan watched as the mountainous terrain of the dry Arizona landscape became gradually bisected with ribbons of highway that intersected with small clusters of buildings and finally with larger towns and cities. As they neared Tucson, the expanse of buildings and civilization grew denser, but Bolan wondered what it had looked like back in the day, when the first settlers edged westward, facing the adversity of the savage land. The tops of some of the mountains, he noticed, were blackened from the summer’s wildfires. He’d spent more years than he cared to remember putting out wildfires of a different type.
Grimaldi banked the plane and began calling the airport to report their approach. When they’d been cleared for landing he swiveled toward Bolan, who sat in the copilot’s seat, and grinned.
“See? Aren’t you glad we waited until morning before we took off?” he asked.
Bolan said nothing as he watched the ground gradually getting closer and closer.
Grimaldi spoke again to the control tower and slowed the Learjet’s descent a bit more.
They were at perhaps five hundred feet now, going over a shopping center and a ball field. When they touched down about thirty seconds later it was as easy as a limousine making a lane change on a freeway.
“And how’s that for the epitome of smoothness?” he asked.
“Careful,” Bolan said. “Don’t strain your arm patting yourself on the back.”
Grimaldi snorted a laugh as he radioed for instructions on proceeding to the appropriate location. Then he turned to Bolan as he steered the plane. “Well, at least I got you to talk. You hardly said two words during the whole trip.”
“I was just thinking how screwed up things have gotten with this one already.”
“That isn’t our fault.”
“No, but it means we’ve inherited a can of worms, as the saying goes.”
Grimaldi taxied the jet toward the section of private aircraft hangers. A man wearing a vest with brightly colored orange stripes directed them to proceed to the right, where an open hangar awaited.
“So what’s our first move?” Grimaldi asked. “After we secure this baby and our gear, of course.”
Bolan had been thinking about how to proceed, and there seemed to be only one course open to them at the moment. “We’re going to see a couple guys about a chopper.”
“Hot damn,” Grimaldi said. “One of my favorite things to do.”
* * *
RIGELLO TRANSPORT AND TOURS was on the edge of town in what appeared to be an unincorporated part of the county, about half a mile beyond the city limits sign for South Tucson. The business itself had a dirt parking lot that gradually gave way to an expanse of asphalt and a long driveway. Three brick buildings with tinted windows were adjacent to the paved lot, and beyond that Bolan could see an extensive area holding neat rows of dilapidated aircraft, trucks, cars and motorcycles.
As they drove by, Bolan noticed a large metallic sign on the front that read Rigello Transport & Tours. By Appointment Only. The big junkyard out back was surrounded by a seven-foot-high cyclone fence topped with three strands of barbed wire, and an additional hand-painted sign on the front gates said, To Hell with the Dog. Beware of the Owneres.
“Obviously, we’re about to come into contact with a couple of real Rhodes Scholars,” Grimaldi said, looking at the misspelling through the passenger window.
He and Bolan had rented a black Escalade with tinted windows, and the air-conditioning was going full blast as the dark SUV sat idling in the late afternoon heat. They’d also opted to wear dark suits, white shirts, ties and sunglasses to fit the role of federal agents.
“We look like refuges from a Men in Black movie,” Grimaldi said.
Bolan was studying the layout, figuring where the points of entry and egress were, estimating the approximate locations of the bathrooms by the vent pipes on the roof, and trying to get a feel for the place. He also was watchful for any human activities, but there were none visible.
“Not really a hotbed of commercial activity, is it?” Grimaldi asked, leaning back in the passenger seat. He took off the nondescript baseball cap and began fanning some of the cold air pouring from the vents toward himself.
“Go try the door,” Bolan said.
“Why me?” Grimaldi winced as he looked outside. “It’s gotta be a hundred and five degrees out there.”
“But it’s a dry heat.” Bolan grinned as he stopped the Escalade.
Grimaldi heaved a sigh and opened the door. He stepped out and slipped on his suit jacket, pantomiming some heavy panting as he said, “Dry or not, it’s damned hot.” He fanned himself with his open palm as he walked slowly to the front door and twisted the knob. The door opened.
The pilot turned toward Bolan with a wide grin, waved and went inside. Bolan pulled into a parking space nearest the door and followed him.
The room was divided into two sections, with a solid rear door leading somewhere. A pair of opaque, plastic shells, about the size of small coffeepots, was affixed to opposite walls, no doubt housing cameras. Their positioning would give a clear view of the entire space 3x to anyone monitoring them.
The office area was rather small, tucked behind the crudely built wooden counter that served as the divider. Metal shelving units behind the counter held stacks of dusty boxes. Crumpled bags from various fast-food restaurants and half-crushed foam coffee cups littered the floor around a small, overflowing garbage can. The place smelled of smoked cigarettes, half-eaten burgers and body odor. A trace of booze lingered in the air as well, like a slightly noticeable aftershave.
A lone figure sat at a small gray desk that held a tattered notebook, a telephone and a calendar.
Grimaldi was already engaged in conversation with him.
“What do you mean, you’re closed?” he asked. “The front door was open.”
“That don’t mean nothing,” the man said. He was a short, gray-bearded guy with an aquiline
