David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

'But perhaps not this time,' the chameleon said. 'Wherever the policeman goes, he'll be the bait that attracts the quarry. The hunt continues. At the moment, I have a team watching Lieutenant Craig, although their primary purpose, of course, is to watch for the enemy.'

'In that case, we'd better join the hunt,' the fourth man said.

'Absolutely,' the third man said.

The others stood quickly.

The chameleon gestured. 'A moment. Before we leave, there's one other matter I need to explain.'

They waited.

'As we know, the enemy – the vermin – are increasing their repugnant activities. There's no anticipating the horrors to which they'll descend as a consequence of their hellish errors. At the same time, I grant that in the past week a great many errors – tactical -were committed on our side. Several were my fault. I've readily admitted that. But judgment day is now . Recent events prove how unstable the situation has become. I'd hoped that we could accomplish this assignment on our own. I'm no longer certain we can. Pride is not my shortcoming. I don't hesitate to ask for help if I think our mission requires it.'

'Help?' The sixth man furrowed his brow.

'I've contacted our superiors. I've explained the situation. They agree with my assessment and agree with my request . At half-past noon, a team of specialists will arrive at Kennedy Airport.'

'Specialists?' The sixth man paled.

That's right. I've sent for a team of enforcers.'

Newark, New Jersey.

In his ramshackle office in a rusted corrugated-metal building on the fringe of the city's docks, Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan scraped a wooden match across his desk and lit the remnant of a cigar he'd butted out last night before going home. No point in being wasteful. After all, this was a Cuban cigar, the last of a box that Don Vincenzo – always thoughtful – had sent to him on his birthday two weeks ago.

Good old Don Vincenzo. He knew how to make his employees happy. Especially those who worked hard for him, and Buster 'Right Hook' Buchanan was as hard a worker as he'd been a tough longshoreman in his youth and then a fierce boxer. A contender. For sure.

On impulse, reminded of his favorite profession, Buster clenched his fists, did a little fancy footwork, jabbed rapidly right and left, then delivered his famous powerful right hook.

Got you! He glared down at his phantom KO'd opponent. But at once the thought of his long-ago glory in the ring made Buster frown. The cheers of the frenzied spectators. The stroking praises of his manager. The different kind of stroking from women, so many women, gorgeous women, eager to fuck a celebrity. Buster shook his head. The cheers, the praises, the women… Some nights it seemed as if… They haunted him.

Buster tried a little more footwork, a little more jabbing, but he was overweight now, twenty years older, and let a fact be a fact, his doctor had warned him to take it easy.

Not that Buster was afraid. Hell, he'd never been afraid. He could still drop three guys in a bar-fight. Any time. Hadn't he done so last night in his neighborhood tavern on the way home from work? Damned right. Nonetheless his impulsive footwork and jabbing, combined with the smoke from the cigar stub in his mouth, made him wheeze. He felt like that one time he'd taken a vacation to Colorado and had never been able to catch his breath in the mountains.

Maybe I ought to give up these cigars. After all, that's what the doctor said.

Shit, no. Life's too short. Hey, what does that frigging doctor know? Was he a contender? Sure, it's easy enough for him to give advice. He looks like a kid, for Christ's sake. And that Rolex he wears. He must have been born with a silver spoon in his asshole. He doesn't understand.

Too bad – too damned bad – about those last three bouts. Buster had always regretted being forced to take a dive – no, three dives – because Don Vincenzo had a cousin who was a fighter and who'd been chosen to be the contender that Buster was supposed to be.

Well, that cousin's glass jaw had put the kabash on his career, Buster thought with bitter delight. But my career had gone in the toilet, and…

Never mind. Waving smoke from his face, puffing on the final remnant of his Cuban cigar – at least, Don Vincenzo remembered the guys he owed favors – Buster told himself he had work to do. Or else Don Vincenzo would be pissed.

Buster savored the final puff from Castro's tobacco and crunched the last of the butt in an overflowing ashtray. Got to get this frigging place cleaned up some time, he thought.

But there was work to do, and as Buster scowled at the scratch mark that his match had left on his battered wooden desk, straight across a circular stain made by a beer can, he told himself that a working man needed rewards now and then. Not just cigars, but…

Yeah.

Buster groped beneath his desk and grabbed the last can of beer in a hollow-sounding twelve-pack. He popped the tab and took several deep swallows.

Vitamins.

Yeah.

He licked his lips, then reminded himself. Work to do. Any minute, Big Joe and his brother were due to arrive at this warehouse with the truck. The three of them would unload the red plastic containers that, except for their color and what they were made of, resembled the canister of natural gas attached to Buster's outdoor barbecue grill.

Not that Buster liked to barbecue. Although his nagging wife did. What a pain in the ass.

When he, Big Joe, and Big Joe's brother emptied the containers into several large metal bins, they'd close the hatches on the bins to conceal their contents and use a forklift truck to place the bins in a sling, which would hoist them onto a barge. Tonight, the three of them would take a cruise down the Hudson River and across to the tip of Long Island.

And dump the shit they were carrying.

Because their cargo – Buster sipped more beer and shivered -was medical waste.

Used needles.

Contaminated bandages.

Infected blood.

Rotting human tissue.

Well, Buster thought and guzzled more beer, it's a dirty job -

– he forced himself to chortle -

– but some poor bastard has to do it. Especially for Don Vincenzo.

Despite the beer that cleared his head from this morning's hangover, Buster sobered.

Yeah, especially for Don Vincenzo. Because if you refuse the Don, you make him unhappy, and when the Don's unhappy, you get your knees broken. And that's only for starters. Fuck the Cuban cigars. When the Don's unhappy, he doesn't just have your knees broken. He butchers you.

And anyway, what's the harm in dumping the needles and the bandages into the ocean? Buster asked himself, wishing he'd thought to buy more beer. There's a land-fill crisis. That's what I read in the frigging papers. Too much garbage. Not enough space to get rid of all that shit. Too many frigging condominiums. Not enough holes in the ground. And nobody wants – what do they call them? – incinerators to get rid of medical waste. The damned yuppies think they'll get a disease if they breathe the smoke. But Don Vincenzo's got the biggest garbage-disposal outfit in eastern New Jersey. So where's he supposed to put all the junk, especially the crap from the hospitals?

The answer was simple.

There's plenty of ocean.

You bet. More than half the world, maybe three-quarters, is frigging water, isn't it? Plenty. I mean plenty of room for a few barges of needles and bandages.

Okay, all right, the tide sometimes works against us, Buster thought. Sometimes the shit drifts back toward land. Sometimes the needles and bandages float up on the beaches.