assignment for a couple of years.”
“Let me guess. You were at the rally the other night.”
“You’re damn skippy we were,” she said.
“We?”
“My cameraman and I. We were right smack-dab in the middle of that shooting gallery. Hell, my producer even added a few gray hairs being down there. Oh, Julio’s going to pass a rainbow-colored Twinkie when he finds out I went on this excursion without him.” She patted a digital camera on the seat next to her. “Boy, did I get some good shots.”
Bolan reached down, popped open the camera’s flash drive compartment and removed the memory card.
“Hey!”
“The name’s Stone,” he said.
“What the fu—?”
“And I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to have my mug splattered all over the front page. You can have whatever’s left back once I’ve removed any images of me. I promise.”
“Ever hear of freedom of the press?”
Bolan’s voice took an edge. “Not when it interferes with my op, La Costa. And this is too important to let you screw it up so early in the game.”
“How about giving me the scoop?”
“If there’s one to give, I’ll see what I can do,” Bolan said. “Why not tell me what you know about our friends back there? Are they part of the Independents?”
La Costa expressed suspicion. “What makes you think those animals were part of Los Independientes?”
“That’s a question, not an answer. Try again.”
“Look, I’m not sure who they are, but I’m positive they’re not with the Independents.”
“My intelligence contacts say otherwise,” Bolan replied.
La Costa shrugged. “You asked my opinion, I’m giving it to you. Those guys are bad, no doubt, but they aren’t part of the Independents. I’ve been following up on a whole lot of leads since the other night, and everything I can come up with says they’re not part of any political party in the country, official or unofficial.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know yet,” La Costa replied. “I was trying to find out when you got in the middle of investigation.”
“There is no investigation,” Bolan said flatly. “Not anymore. It ends now. Whoever’s behind this attack has created a political and social firestorm, one that could turn ugly for everyone in Puerto Rico. The situation is too hot for me to allow you or anyone else to get in the way.”
“How do you propose to stop me?”
“Tie you up, if necessary.”
“Sounds kinky,” La Costa replied. “But it’ll have to wait.”
“Fine with me. But you still haven’t explained where you came up with the idea someone on the outside is behind this.”
“Because neither of the radical politicos in this region operates this way,” she said. “They’ve protested, even turned riotous and been squelched by local police, but an outright act of violence is totally out of character. Plus the fact, I know the head of the Independents personally. He would never do anything like this.”
“Maybe his people planned it without his knowledge?”
La Costa shook her head with a snort. “Not likely. Believe me, Stone, I’ve been here for over a year reporting the news. I know everyone who’s anyone. This isn’t his style.”
“Then maybe you can help me after all.”
“How?”
Bolan grinned. “By making an introduction. Maybe if I hear it from this guy myself I can help clear him and his people.”
“I’m not sure he’d meet with you.”
“Never know until you try,” Bolan replied. “Besides, it’s better than being tied up in some strange hotel room until I can clear this up by more indirect methods.”
La Costa laughed. “Says who?”
CHAPTER THREE
Despite Guadalupe La Costa’s reservations, Mack Bolan eventually convinced her to take him to the leader of the Independents.
Something made him admire this young, spirited reporter. She didn’t take any sass and gave out plenty, and she seemed genuinely concerned about reporting the truth no matter how brutal it might seem. Bolan could admire that kind of gutsy determination and devotion to duty; he understood those traits because they were so much a part of what made up his own identity. He related to La Costa and in large part that contributed to her attractiveness.
“The Independents are led by a man named Miguel Veda,” La Costa told him as Bolan drove them to the man’s seaside home northwest of San Juan.
It seemed Veda lived off the coast. Although he had other business interests to the degree that his political interests seemed more entrepreneurial—or those of a raving lunatic who really cared little about the future of Puerto Rico—La Costa’s description of Veda’s estate left Bolan with the impression business was good. When they finally arrived at the place, about a thirty-minute drive from the hotel, the big American’s assessment was confirmed.
Two uniformed security men checked their credentials and La Costa’s vehicle, including looking in the trunk and running a mirror the length of the undercarriage, before an escort team in a golf cart led them up the driveway. More armed security ushered them into the house. They were shown to a spacious office and library. Most of the furniture looked early twentieth century, although some peculiar-looking pieces were interspersed among the predominant decor. Everything here looked as if it had been chosen with regard to functionality, with very little gaudiness apparent. Everything had to serve some practical purpose; Veda obviously didn’t buy anything for its artistic value.
“You’re damned right he doesn’t,” La Costa replied in agreement when Bolan verbalized the sentiment. “Miguel’s the kind of man who doesn’t feel he should squander his hard-earned money on overpriced trinkets while his people are starving.”
“Miguel,” Bolan echoed. “You’re on a first-name basis?”
La Costa looked abashed. “Have been. He gave me my first big break down here. It’s not easy being both a woman and a minority in the press, even today. Especially working in Puerto Rico, where the male ego is fragile enough that machismo is still a mainstay of the culture.”
“I’d think something like that would prove a real turnoff for someone as strong-willed as you.”
La Costa smiled and winked. “You have no idea.”
A set of double doors on the far side of the office, opposite from where they had been shown in, swung open and cut short
