M.I.A. Hunter: Miami War Zone Page 10

  "Want me to put the lid back on?" Hog asked.

  "Good idea," Stone answered. "It might take them longer to figure out how we got in that way."

  While Hog struggled with the drain cover, Stone and Loughlin started to retrace their steps to where Carol was parked. In only a few minutes they were emerging at the other end.

  "I heard the sirens," Carol said, opening the doors of the car so that they could deposit their weapons and get inside. "I was beginning to get a little worried."

  "We had to make a little more noise than I'd hoped," Stone told her.

  He gave her the address the don had revealed. "We need to locate this place. That's where they have Wofford."

  "Let's get out of here first," Carol said. "Those sirens are too close for comfort."

  "Before we go," Loughlin put in, "I have a question. Where the hell is Hog?"

  Chapter Eleven

  Hog was still in the tunnel.

  As he had pulled the iron cover over the hole, another hand had grabbed it by the edge, ripped it from Hog's grip, and tossed it aside as if it were a Frisbee.

  Hog looked up through the hole, and a huge body landed on him. Loughlin had not killed his man, or even knocked him out, only temporarily subdued him. Now he was after Hog.

  Hog fell to the bottom of the tunnel under the weight, landing on his back in the thin trickle of water, which he was sure contained raw sewage.

  The man was taking no chances this time. He wrapped his thick, fat arms around Hog's body—no small accomplishment, considering Wiley's bulk—and began to squeeze. There was no way this one was going to get his hands free.

  Or so the man thought. Hog butted him in the face with his head, crunching the man's already tortured nose.

  The man let go and Hog rolled free, coming to his feet, but the big gorilla wasn't through yet. He tackled Hog around the knees and brought him down again.

  Water splashed and Hog's breath whuffed out of his lungs. The man stood up, still holding on to Hog's legs. He struggled to pick Hog up, with the obvious intention of dropping him on his head.

  Hog fought to get air back into his lungs. He was dangling upside down, trying to get some purchase on the bottom of the tunnel with his hands in order to steady himself. He couldn't.

  The man was finding Hog a real handful and instead of dropping him he decided to crack his spine or break his neck, whichever came first. He lowered Hog's head to the tunnel floor, and still keeping his grip around the legs, began to press down as hard as he could.

  This time, Hog did manage to get his hands down on the ribbed tunnel bottom and brace himself. Both men strained, their muscles pumped, sweat running down their bodies.

  Suddenly, Hog relaxed completely. The big man, taken by surprise, loosened his grip slightly and Hog kicked his legs free, turning a backward flip and coming up to face him.

  The two men crouched in the dark tunnel, trying to avoid hitting their heads on its top. The only light came from Hog's flash, which he had dropped several feet away. It cast long shadows down the tunnel's length.

  Hog was wet and uncomfortable. He was sure that he had been rolling around in shit. His neck hurt. He bellowed and charged the big man, who bellowed and charged as well.

  They ran together like two buffaloes, each trying to get a crushing hold on the other. The big man won, but this time Hog's arms were free. He had managed to slip them above the grip. As the man put tremendous pressure on Hog's chest, the East Texan began to force the man's head backward and down, trying to pop his head off like the head of a chicken.

  The man let Hog go, propelling him back and down the tunnel. Hog went down hard on his ass.

  "That's it, goddammit!" Hog yelled. "I'm tired of fuckin' around with you." He meant it, and he wanted out of the tunnel. He was afraid the police would hear something and locate the entrance to the storm drain. It was time to forget about a "fair fight."

  Unfortunately, Hog couldn't find his .357, which was lying somewhere in the darkness. He had dropped it along with his light when the man had fallen on him. He had returned his plastic knife to his boot in the don's room, however, and now he pulled it out.

  The big man ran at him. Hog met the charge and slipped the knife in between the man's second and third ribs. He had to do it just right, since he didn't want the knife to break before it had done its job.

  The sharp, brittle plastic slipped in through layers of fat and muscle so smoothly that it was hardly noticeable. In fact Hog's adversary didn't seem to feel it at first. He smacked into Hog like a Mack truck.

  Hog's hand retained its grip on the knife handle, and he instinctively tried to pull the weapon out. It snapped off, leaving Hog holding only the hilt.

  "Damn," Hog yelled, as he fell once more.

  The man stood over Hog as if trying to decide what to do about him. He bent slightly, blood gushed from his mouth, splattering Hog's fatigues, and he toppled over without a sound. Hog moved aside to avoid the falling body.

  Hog got up, located his flashlight and then his .357. He looked back at the dead man and shot him the finger. It really pissed Hog off that he had been made to wallow in the foul water like a . . . well, like a damn hog!

  Halfway back to the car, Hog met Loughlin coming back to find him.

  "I thought you might have tripped over another sprinkler head," the Brit said wryly.

  "Naw," Hog told him. "This time, I tripped over a dick-head."

  They went back through the tunnel and joined the others at the car.

  Reacting to the police calls they heard on the way back to Miami, Rosales and Allbright found themselves looking over one more slaughter aftermath, this one at the Lucci estate, that was a virtual replay of the earlier scenes of bloody carnage at the Black Pussy Cat and at that clearing off Highway 1, south of Miami.

  "This is becoming more and more like total war," Rosales lamented. "I am head of the Organized Crime Division, and I do not even know what is going on. There is no word on the street about this, no word at all."

  "Homicide isn't going to look too good either," Allbright informed him. "We've got as many dead bodies lying around right now as we had in the drug wars of the early eighties, and this may be only the beginning."

  A uniform came out of the house and walked over to where they were standing on the floodlit lawn.

  "There's worse news inside," he said.

  "What could be worse?" Rosales wondered, looking across the bodies scattered around.

  "About eight more dead people," the uniform said. "And one of them appears to be Don Vito Lucci."

  "Shit," Allbright muttered.

  Rosales looked at him. "Who could be doing this? Who could be creating this havoc?"

  Allbright shook his head. He had no idea.

  Williams was with Bass and the other two D.E.A. men, Benton and Ferguson, trying to come up with an answer to a question that was bothering him. "So it looks like the Cubans double-crossed the Colombians, right?"

  "Right," Ferguson said. "Or it appears that way. There are a lot of problems with that theory."

  "Could Stone have been involved in it?"

  "I don't see how," Bass said. "Not if that really was Stone in the white car the police were chasing."

  "It was Stone," Benton told them. "The local cops are sure of it. They got close enough at one time to see the men and the woman who was driving. There's not much doubt of who it was."

  "And all the coke and all the money were still there after the fighting was over?"

  "That's right," Ferguson said.

  "It doesn't make sense." Williams rubbed his hand over his face. "Why would anyone leave the money and the dope?"

  No one had an answer.

  Stone had not slept for more than twenty-four hours, and he had hardly eaten. Hog and Loughlin were not much better off. There are times in every action when something has to give. If Stone and his team kept pushing themselves, they would be weakened. They might fail in their mission as surely as if they had set o
ut to fail deliberately.

  And it was a mission. Jack Wofford, Stone now knew, was as much a prisoner of war as anyone had ever been, facing some of the same dangers. He didn't yet know why Crazy Charlie wanted Wofford, but he knew that his friend would face torture roughly similar to what he had once faced in Vietnam.

  Stone didn't want that to happen again. Wofford was a good man, and he deserved a chance. Stone wanted him to have it.

  But they had to have rest and food. They would crash for an hour at the safe house, then mount an assault on Crazy Charlie's place.

  Stone leaned his head back on the seat as Carol drove them through the dark streets.

  Wofford was uncomfortably cold. Two thugs had come in about thirty minutes before and stripped off his clothes before turning the thermostat on the air conditioner all the way down. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. The cold, his nakedness, both were attempts to weaken him.

  The door to the room opened and a large man walked in. He was carrying a black medical bag.

  Jack didn't think this was a normal house call. He didn't think that real doctors made house calls anymore.

  The man put the bag down on the bedside table. "My name is Dr. Fox. I'm going to be working with you for a while."

  He opened the bag and took out the leather gloves, putting them on and smoothing them over his hands. He hummed something from the movies as he smoothed the gloves. Wofford thought it was "Moon River."

  The door opened again. Crazy Charlie came in, but he did not introduce himself. He sat in a chair, crossed his legs, and got comfortable.

  Fox smiled at Wofford. Then he began to methodically slap him across the face, forehand and backhand, time and again. Not hard, but hard enough to pop Wofford's head from side to side and to cause him to bounce lightly in his bonds.

  "In a moment, Mr. Lucci will have some questions to ask you," Fox crooned. "I do hope that you will do your best to answer him honestly and completely. It's the best way, believe me."

  "You bastards," Wofford spat at him. "I've had this done to me by real experts. And I didn't tell them a thing."

  Fox didn't bother to reply. He just began to slap him harder, keeping up his methodical rhythm. Wofford's lips were smashed against his teeth, and drops of blood flew from beneath Fox's gloves with each slap.

  Crazy Charlie sat and watched the bright droplets stain the bedspread and the walls. He didn't seem to mind.

  When he judged that the beating had gone on long enough, Fox drew off his gloves and placed them beside the bag. He reached in and took out a hypodermic and the Sodium Amytal. "I'll just inject this into the femoral artery. Then you can ask your questions. I think he'll give you all the answers that you want, but if he doesn't we can try something more."

  He slipped the needle into the artery and pushed the plunger of the hypodermic. Wofford seemed not to feel it. Fox prided himself on giving painless injections.

  When the refugees who arrived in Florida on the Mariel Harbor boat lift were checked out, it was discovered that Fidel Castro had delivered to the United States a number of decent men and women.

  He had also delivered a number of the criminally insane and not a few rapists, murderers, thieves, arsonists, perverts, swindlers, burglars, and other assorted evildoers.

  Enrique Feliz had hired as many of the real hard cases as he could find before the U.S. managed to ferret them out and ship them back to Cuba. He had needed men like that to help him in the drug wars that he was fighting with the Lucci family, and they had helped him to win. They were men who had lived lives of such hardship that any kind of alternative to going back seemed preferable, and Feliz offered them a good deal indeed.

  They could put their criminal skills to good use for him, make a decent living, and use his organization to avoid the clutches of the U.S. law.

  It worked out fine for all concerned.

  There was one other Marielito that Feliz had hired, a man that he almost actually trusted.

  Ramón Flores looked like a retired pug who had gone into the tank for years for better fighters and never been a contender. The thickened cartilage in his ears, the broken nose, the puffy face—all seemed to indicate his past.

  The indications were almost correct. Flores had been a fighter, but he had never gone in the tank. He had won his share of bouts and then gotten out of the game. He was an intelligent man who wanted to put his brain to work instead of his fists.

  He found his niche in Havana's underworld. While he was personally honest, he was able to figure elaborate scams, plan complicated crimes, most of which were carried off without a hitch. He was never involved himself, but he collected his cut from those who were.

  When he arrived in Florida, he began at once to put his skills to use in the land of the free. Enrique Feliz heard of him, located him, and hired him. All on the same day. He was the smartest man Feliz had ever met, and whenever Feliz had a real problem he called on Flores to find him the answer.

  They were discussing the matter of the ambush.

  "And you say that no one took the money or the product?" Flores asked.

  "That is what I say," Feliz told him. "Of course, I have only the words of two worthless cobardes who fled the scene, but I at least believe that they stayed until almost the end and that they have no reason to lie to me about what they think happened."

  "And both sides were fired upon."

  "That is also what they tell me."

  "Why would the Colombians want to betray us?"

  Feliz shook his head. "I can think of no reason."

  "I can think of one," Flores told him. "They might have the idea of going into business for themselves."

  "Ha!" Feliz barked shortly. "They know well that if they tried to do such a thing, my Marielitos would destroy them. It is an impossibility."

  Flores knew that nothing was impossible in the drug world, but he did not say so. "Are there any of your men who would betray you?"

  "Of course there are, but none of them would dare to take such a risk and leave behind the money and the product."

  Flores smiled inwardly. Feliz could never bring himself to say the word dope. Out of respect, Flores followed the same habit. "So that leaves us with only one possibility," he said.

  "'And what is that?" Feliz asked, though he thought he knew. He had already worked it out for himself, but he had wanted to bring in Flores to confirm his idea.

  "A third party," Flores said.

  "Exactly what I thought," Feliz agreed. "And who do you think it might be? Who would dare such a thing?"

  "You know as well as I."

  "I would like to hear you say it, nevertheless."

  "The Organization. The Mob. Don Vito Lucci."

  Feliz did not entirely agree with this assessment. "Not Don Vito."

  "No, I suppose that you are correct, though he must know of it. It must have been his son, the one they call El Loco."

  "That is the one," Feliz said. "Crazy Charlie."

  "And what do you intend to do about him?"

  "Kill him. Smash him and his Organization. They have left me alone for years, but I beat them once and I can beat them again. Perhaps they are in need of a lesson. I shall give them one."

  "Not for revenge?"

  "I do not deal in revenge. I deal in lessons. Besides, there is more."

  "More?" Flores looked puzzled. What more could there be?

  "There is a rumor on the street that a D.E.A. man has disappeared. I believe him to be in the hands of Crazy Charlie."

  "How do you know this?"

  "It is an unpleasant story," Feliz said, almost sorrowfully. "It involves another lesson I had to teach earlier tonight."

  "Another lesson?" Flores was beginning to wonder just how much Enrique really trusted him. He had heard nothing of another lesson.

  "Several of my own men have gone over to the other side, tying in with Don Vito. It was not as if they did it in secret. No, they did it quite openly, almost as if they were defying me
to do anything about it. Perhaps they thought the don would protect them. They should have known that he would not. Not if I wanted to teach them a lesson."

  "Rodriguez and Castillo," Flores said

  "Ah, so you have heard about that."

  Flores nodded. He had heard earlier in the evening about the carnage at the Black Pussy Cat. No one had known the exact reasons for what had happened, but Flores knew Rodriguez and Castillo had been in the club. Now he knew the whole story.

  "I knew you would figure it out," Feliz congratulated him. "There is more to the story, however."

  "I am always eager to learn," Flores assured him.

  "The D.E.A. man. I am sure that Rodriguez had a hand in setting him up. I believe that they sold him to the don."

  "For what purpose?"

  "No doubt they want to find out just how much the D.E.A. knows about our operation. If Crazy Charlie is planning to move in on us, then he would most likely want all the intelligence he can get. Who would know more than the D.E.A.?"

  "It seems logical," Flores said. "Yet something about it does not appear quite right."

  "It is right," Feliz said confidently. "I am sure of it."

  "And so you have taught one lesson. Does Don Vito know of it?"

  "I am sure that he has heard."

  "Who will be the object of the next lesson? The don or El Loco?"

  "Crazy Charlie will be the one. I believe that he is the one to be the motivating force behind the attack tonight. He is young and ambitious, probably not content, as his father is, to live off the huge profits they derive from their other sources of income. The young are like that, always wanting more." Feliz shook his head philosophically.

  "And when is the lesson to be administered?"

  "We leave in"—Feliz glanced at his Rolex—"ten minutes. Would you like to come along and watch?"

  "No, thank you." Bores had gotten his fill of violence in the ring. He had no taste for it now. "I hope that El Loco learns his lesson well."

  Feliz grinned crookedly. "He will, I am certain of that. Whether he will survive to tell about it, well, that is another matter entirely."