“Too easy. I found out the Wolves were rumored to be connected to De la Noval’s group. He supplied them with brown heroin, and they would get him whatever firepower his little heart desired. That’s what Avelia was purportedly working on. He was trying to find out who was supplying the Wolves with guns to sell. And there’s a new wrinkle.”
Bolan and Grimaldi both looked at Brognola.
“Our old buddy Dimitri Chakhkiev is supposedly coming to the U.S.”
“Chakhkiev?” Grimaldi said. “Where have I heard that name before?”
“Russian arms dealer,” Bolan said. “He used to be KBG before the Soviet Union broke up. Now he’s dipping his fingers into every little conflict he can, from Africa to Chechnya to the Middle East.”
“Maybe he’s planning on doing a little sightseeing,” Grimaldi said with a grin. “The Statue of Liberty, the Grand Canyon, Vegas...”
“Any idea what Chakhkiev is up to?” Bolan asked.
Brognola shrugged. “We have no idea yet, but it’s got to be something to do with an arms deal.”
Bolan stood. “I’ve heard enough. Jack, how soon can you get the Learjet at Andrews ready for a trip to Arizona?”
Grimaldi shrugged. “How long does it take to put in some gas and file a flight plan?”
“Call and put things in motion then,” Bolan said. “Hal, you’d better square things with the Air Force base.”
“Arrangements have already been made. And it’s already been fueled, Jack,” he added drily.
“Did I mention that I have to unpack from our last trip first?” Grimaldi said, shooting Bolan a smile, which he transformed into a fake yawn. “Not to mention repacking for this one. And according to FAA rules, I can’t fly until I’ve had at least eight hours sleep. How about we shoot for first thing in the morning? After all, we’ll gain three hours flying out West anyway.”
“Fine,” Bolan said. “Make it 5:00 a.m. I’m going to the gym.”
“Want some company?” Grimaldi asked. “I’d be glad to hold the heavy bag for you.”
Bolan shook his head. “Thanks, but I need some time alone.”
Pima County, Arizona
A couple things bothered John Lassiter as he rode shotgun in the blue van while Morris drove south under the dark canopy of twinkling stars set against the velvet of the moonlit sky. One was the informant they’d turned over earlier. The other was what Ellen had said. He tried to put all that out of his mind and concentrate on the mission. They were in the middle of nowhere on a lonely stretch of Arizona highway. The semi, laden with the cache of weapons, was three car lengths behind them. Lassiter had the suitcases with the money and the Mexican brown in the van with him. GOD had texted telling them to meet the Wolves to get their payoff money for the heroin, make that exchange, and then drive the weapons and the cash to the warehouse at GDF Industries. Then they’d collect their money and proceed to some much needed R and R.
The stuff about the tests that Ellen had mentioned still lingered in his mind, still bothered him. Was she right? Was he really sick?
But hell, he felt fine. During their liaison last night, which had lasted longer than he’d anticipated, Lassiter had dropped and done twenty-five one-arm push-ups with each arm as if it was nothing. She’d watched him with marveling approval and said she had to run more tests, and not to worry until she’d confirmed a few things. From his experience, doctors, especially women doctors, always made things out to be worse than they really were.
“I don’t think we’re too far from Wally’s Waterworld,” Morris said. “I grew up around here. The park closed about twelve years ago.”
Lassiter nodded. He remembered the place. He’d used the abandoned park from time to time as a staging area for raids into Mexico and Central America.
One of the Wolves escorting them pulled up alongside Lassiter’s window and motioned for him to lower it. The percussive rumbling of the Harley nearly drowned out the biker’s words, but Lassiter could still make them out: “Take the next right.”
Up ahead he saw a dirt road that intersected with the highway.
Lassiter used his radio to relay their turnoff to the semi. “You guys pull over, but stay on the main highway. Set up sentry positions,” he added. “Morris and I will make the exchange down that road, then come back to meet you. Remember, our orders are to take the semi to the GDF facility outside South Tucson afterward.”
He waited until his guys in the Peterbilt truck gave him a “Roger that.”
The lead biker swerved onto the dirt road and glanced back to make sure the van was following. Lassiter didn’t fully trust the bikers, but he had dealt with them enough times to know this was how they operated. Besides, he had his insurance. He nudged the Beretta 93R on his hip for reassurance and rubbed his fingers over the plastic grip of his M-4. He usually left the rifle in the van on these high desert transactions, but there was no way he was going in unarmed. The van jolted as the wheels left the pavement and hit the dirt surface of the side road. The other Harley swung in behind them.
While Lassiter didn’t care about turning over the drugs to the motorcycle idiots, having the weapons along at this point, albeit back on the highway, didn’t seem like a prudent move. Of course, he reminded himself, that wasn’t his call. Or his concern. He was just following orders. It had to be Godfrey’s bright idea, his master plan. He’d been using the Wolves motorcycle gang to transport weapons south of the border for the past year, in exchange for the drugs and money to run their secret, dirty little operations. The deal with De la Noval, set up through the bikers, had been the largest they’d attempted. So large, the Wolves said, they’d have to use helicopters to transport it in. A handy little excuse for dropping Lassiter and his team on the unsuspecting drug lord and his cronies.
They were expecting a large cache of weapons, after all. And that’s what they got. Lassiter smiled. He and Morris had gone perhaps half a mile, with the headlights of the van illuminating the cloudy wake of dust the lead motorcycle was raising, when Lassiter spotted a group of motorcycles parked in a smoothed-out circular patch perhaps a hundred yards distant. A headlight flashed momentarily, and he assumed it was a signal. They came to a stop, and Lassiter waited for the dust to settle before he stepped out.
The terrain was typically barren. Short sprouts of cactus and sage speckled the undulating landscape, which stretched away into the darkness.
Four bikers were leaning on their hogs, each wearing the distinctive burning crosses with the white wolf’s head in the center. The one closest to them pushed off his seat and sauntered forward.
“About damn time you got here,” he said.
Lassiter could see the biker was missing a few important teeth. The guy was maybe six-three and had no shirt on under his leather vest. His fat belly jiggled as he walked.
“You got the stuff?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Lassiter said. “You got the money?”
The biker rolled his tongue over his gap-toothed grin. “First we test it.”
“Be my guest,” Lassiter said. “But then we count.”
The biker spit onto the ground off to his side. At least he knew enough not to get near Lassiter’s boots.
“Do that again and I’ll break your neck,” Lassiter said in a calm, but firm voice.
The biker tried to smile, but his bravado was obviously shaken.
Morris brought the suitcase from the rear of the van. The biker held out his hands.
“You got something for us?” Lassiter said.
The biker frowned