Parmahel scratched absently at his neck. “Well, after working with you for this long I’m not exactly sure what kind of crazy stunts you might pull. And the last time I checked, there were guys with guns shooting at us.”
“They weren’t really shooting at us.”
“Okay, my bad, they were shooting around us! Which is pretty much the same as shooting at us in my book.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, Julio?”
“Guess I’m just addicted to breathing,” he said.
La Costa chuckled and punched his arm. “Just stick with me, my friend. I’ll show you the time of your life.”
CHAPTER SIX
Guadalupe La Costa knew of only one person in all Guayama who would answer to Veda, and subsequently have the kind of information that Stone would seek.
La Costa knew him only as Frederico, a drunken and tattooed fool living in Las Mareas who would do anything for a quick buck. And usually did. Not that a little cash didn’t go a long way in Puerto Rico—certainly way more than it did in the States. And if there was anything La Costa had it was cash. Actually, the AP compensated her pretty well. In addition to providing her travel expenses while she worked, they had also arranged for very affordable housing through coop apartment homes and condos. La Costa shared a two-bedroom apartment with another reporter who handled the night beat. This way, she was able to sock away a lot more than if she had a place on her own.
They found Frederico in his usual place, doing his usual drinking and scratching his rear and avoiding anything resembling hard labor, seated on the front porch of the run-down motel owned by his aged mother. Frederico didn’t look terribly happy to see her, and he seemed even less enthused when setting eyes on Julio Parmahel. La Costa would never have admitted it but she figured Frederico had somewhat of a crush on her, and he probably viewed Parmahel’s presence as an infringement on his territory.
“Hello, Frederico,” she said.
“What do you want?” He was slurring his words, and even in the dim porch light she could see his eyes were bloodshot.
She nodded toward the whiskey bottle on the small table next to his chair. “I see your tastes have moved up in the world. You must have come into some money recently, because you’re not drinking that rotgut you normally do. And Canadian whiskey no less. Fancy, fancy. I don’t suppose that money happened to come from a tall American who asks too many questions, did it?”
“What kind of a businessman would I be if I talk too much about my clients?” He belched.
“Frederico, you are disgusting,” La Costa replied. “But unfortunately, we don’t have time to go into proper etiquette and manners around a lady.”
Frederico squinted. “Yeah, man, especially since I no see a lady here.”
“I think I’ll just let that one go by, since I know it’s a bunch of false bravado anyway. What I need to know from you is real simple. What did he ask you and where did you send him?”
“Why should I tell you? Huh? What you do for me?”
“First, I won’t ask any of my friends on the Guayama police to kick your head in the next time they catch you downtown.” She produced a roll of money. “Second, I have here what I’d bet is at least twice what he offered you.”
Frederico grinned broadly as greed filled his eyes. “What was the question again?”
MACK BOLAN DROVE SLOWLY past the address he’d been provided and scoped out the area.
The address happened to be a club of some kind nestled in what he quickly surmised to be Guayama’s red-light district. Pedestrians of every ethnicity hung out on the sidewalks, a good number of them obviously out to do nothing more than take in the sights. However, that left plenty who clearly had another purpose in mind. Some wore the clothing and colors and stances of gang members; some were out to sell flesh; some were simply out to peddle their wares, be it drugs, guns or knockoffs.
The soldier knew this scene all too well, but he wished he could have said otherwise. The vices of this area were no different than they would have been in any mid- to large-size city in America. Those who had spent their lives in unemployment and squalor—usually without equal access to opportunities in jobs and education—typified the majority of the denizens in this part of the world. Bolan knew it wasn’t all bad. Puerto Rico boasted many beautiful and prosperous areas.
This just didn’t happen to be one of them.
As they rolled past the club, Bolan pointed toward two big men who weren’t standing close enough to the door to be bouncers. No, these men had been waiting, and to Bolan’s trained eye had been waiting for some time. The fact they wore sunglasses and had rather long black hair, coupled with their custom-tailored suits, marked them as out of place as a pair of hippos in a petting zoo. Neither Bolan nor Grimaldi could tell if the pair of watchers had taken more than a casual interest in their car.
Bolan continued along the thoroughfare without changing speed and proceeded another two blocks. He turned right onto a side street, drove one block and made another right. Along this part of the north side commercial area all the businesses were dark. Bolan pulled to the curb and stopped. He killed the engine before going EVA and opening the trunk. From the weapons bag he retrieved his Beretta 93-R nestled in the shoulder holster. He donned the leather rig and fastened it down, then procured an MP-5 K machine pistol.
By the time Grimaldi had joined him, Bolan had also withdrawn a Benelli M-1014 combat shotgun. Adopted by the Marine Corps in 2001, the weapon had proved itself as a reliable and powerful ally against the war on terror. And in the hands of Grimaldi, it would do so once again.
“I take it this means you have a plan in mind?” Grimaldi asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I’m thinking soft probe,” Bolan said. “But I want to be ready if it goes hard.”
“What’s my role?”
“You’re going to take the wheel, give me fifteen minutes and then drive past the front of the club. Have the window down and be ready in case I have to come out swinging.”
“What’s the shotgun for?” Grimaldi asked, as he took the Benelli from Bolan.
The soldier smiled. “A hasty exit.”
Bolan turned and crossed the street, heading for the back of the club. He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but he couldn’t think of a better way to get answers. If the information he’d bought didn’t pan out, it would mean a dead end. Still, he knew only one of two possibilities lay in wait beyond the walls of that club—there were terrorists operating in Puerto Rico or Miguel Veda had managed to dupe him into a trap. Something about this setup told Bolan he was walking into a trap anyway. It didn’t bother him—he’d walked into them before.
The waist-high cinder-block wall didn’t pose any obstacle to him any more than the ten-foot wrought-iron gates beyond it. Within a minute, Bolan reached the rear entrance of the club. The door was locked, so the soldier went to work on jimmying the catch using his boot knife. It didn’t take long before he gained access; the door didn’t even have a dead bolt. Apparently, the proprietor didn’t worry about
