his gaze. Instead, she turned her attention to whatever she was cooking on the stove. The young guy looked like a first-rate hood, between the tattoos adorning both arms from the knuckles to the shoulders, and the gold tooth that glinted through slightly parted lips. A two-inch-wide line of hair ran Mohawk-style from front to back on an otherwise bald head. He wore baggy jeans and a white muscle shirt that was yellowed and tattered with age.
“You Stone?” he asked.
Bolan nodded.
“Okay, like, I got told that if you managed to find your way here that I was to tell you what you wanted to know.”
The soldier considered that for a moment and then replied, “You work for Miguel Veda?”
The guy half laughed and half belched and then took a deep pull from the sweating, long-neck bottle. “Why do you care?”
Bolan tried an easy smile. “I like to know where my information’s coming from.”
The young man tried to look puffed up, his wiry frame all but puny against Bolan’s combat-honed mass of sinew and muscle. He might have intimidated lesser men, but the Executioner didn’t see him as a threat. The possibility existed, of course, the guy had ten or fifteen guns waiting in the next room, but Bolan knew if he gave even the slightest impression of weakness he would lose all respect. And maybe get his throat cut, too. He thought about an additional rejoinder, but he decided a steady look would suffice.
When the guy sensed Bolan wasn’t a pushover, he said, “Yeah, okay, so who doesn’t work for Miguel?”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“Yeah, okay. I work for Miguel. Whatever gets you through the day. Okay, man?”
The guy made some kind of gang sign, but Bolan let it pass. “You were going to tell me something.”
“Yeah, sure,” the guy said, taking another drink as if trying to build up courage. “You want to know who did the deed the other night in San Juan, no?”
“Yeah.”
“It was them dudes down here. Guys over on the north side of town.”
“What guys?”
“I don’t know, man,” the young man said irritability. “They some guys from the States, man. Guys from your home turf, man.”
“Americans?”
“No, these no Americans. These guys aren’t even white, man. These dudes are like al Qaeda or something.”
The hairs stood on the back of Bolan’s neck. “You’re saying these men are terrorists?”
“I guess so, if that’s what you say.”
“It’s not what I said, it’s what you just said.”
Bolan found this guy more frustrating by the moment. Right now, he didn’t have time for games. He couldn’t understand why Miguel Veda would have sent him on a wild-goose chase to Las Mareas if he didn’t have anything to hide. Unless Veda was stalling, in which case that would’ve clinched the party leader’s guilt. For now Bolan knew he’d have to find a way to work with this guy. Yet something deep in the Executioner’s gut told him he could be walking into a trap.
Bolan shook his head. “Look, if you have information for me then spill. Otherwise, I’m out of here.”
“Look, man, all I do is what Mr. Veda says. I tell you only what I see, which is all I can tell you, ’cause I don’t know nothing else.”
“All right,” Bolan said. “Tell me where I might find these terrorists.”
“They have a club on the north side of town, I think.” He leaned back in his chair and scratched his belly thoughtfully. “I can give you an address, but if you want it you got to pay.”
“First the address and then the money,” Bolan replied coolly.
The man stared at Bolan for a time and then finally shrugged, leaned forward, grabbed a pen from the table and quickly scribbled a barely legible address on a scrap of paper. He then set the pen down with a pronounced movement and promptly held out his hand. Bolan scooped up the paper, made sure he could read the address and then dug into his pocket. He handed the guy a fifty-dollar bill as he rose and turned to leave. Under other circumstances he might not have turned his back on a crew like this, but he didn’t think they would try to burn him at this point. They had plenty of opportunities to take him out, and neither of them had given him any reason to suspect they would try something now. Bolan traversed the hallway as quickly as possible, went out the door and within a minute he and Grimaldi were headed for a barrio in uptown Guayama.
“FOR PITY’S SAKE!” Guadalupe La Costa snapped. “Will you step on it already, Julio? At the rate we’re going I’ll have grandkids before we get there.”
“I’ve got it pegged now,” Parmahel protested. “These things won’t go over fifty-five miles per hour. If you’d like to get out and push, that might help.”
La Costa thought about cursing him out with a string of obscenities, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She considered apologizing, but then simply sighed, slid down the seat and closed her eyes. She was acting like a bitch and she knew it, but in her defense that damned Colonel Stone had utterly messed with her head. La Costa knew better than to have trusted him; she learned many years ago that most men eventually lied, cheated or just simply broke hearts. They couldn’t help it—it was in their blood.
Julio had always been different though, which is probably why their partnership had worked out so well over the past year. In one way, she regretted the thought of parting company with Stone, but this story would make her career and she wasn’t about to let anyone hold her back. Especially not some cocky and arrogant military type with a Neanderthal protective instinct.
Of course the possibility remained that she wouldn’t find Stone in time, in which case she’d not only be out of a story, but also most likely a job. It still made sense on some level, however, to risk it. Beside the fact, she stood a pretty good chance of finding out what was going on without Stone’s help, and if she came back with exclusive news and videotape her producer couldn’t possibly be angry with her. Yeah, that was the answer. She had to come back with something really big and really juicy. How else to keep her job?
She opened her eyes just in time to catch the sign marking the city limits of Guayama.
At long last they had arrived!
“Well, it looks like we finally made it. Now all we have to do is find Stone.”
“What’s so important about this Colonel Stone?” Parmahel asked. “I mean, it’s not like the guy’s going to tell you anything. He already screwed you over once. What makes you think he won’t do it again?”
“My goodness, Julio. Haven’t you learned anything working with me? You don’t honestly think I’m going to let Stone rip me off from my story, do you? He told me I had to stay in San Juan, but you see how that worked out.”
“Why do I get this strange feeling that you’re getting us into something really messy and really dangerous?”
“I
