Don Pendleton - State Of War

Kaino gave Bolan a hard look. “All right.”

The soldier ejected his magazine of hollowpoint bullets and slapped in twenty-one rounds of less lethal ammo. In Bolan’s experience rubber bullets had a pretty dismal track record unless they came in shotgun slug sizes or buckshot-size swarms. At 21 grains, the 9 mms Bolan was loading were basically like hitting someone with a Gummi bear that had been on the shelf a few months too long. Of course they were coming in at 800 feet per second and the Beretta 93-R did have the advantage of pumping them out in 3-round bursts.

Bolan kicked the door and stepped aside.

A double-barrel went off like dynamite and two ARs burned their magazines in seconds and pinged open on empty.

The soldier stepped in.

A Zeta gangbanger screamed and charged, wielding his spent rifle by the barrel like a club. Bolan gave him three bursts from the Beretta and dropped him clutching his ribs. Another gangbanger stared stupidly with his sawed-off shotgun broken open, trying to pluck out the smoking shells. Two bursts or rubber bullets below the belt buckle left the gangster sagging and wetting himself.

Kaino came through the door.

Salami literally cartwheeled at Bolan, who put a burst into his ribs. Salami’s foot scythed the Beretta out of Bolan’s hands. The soldier ducked the ensuing heel kick by a hair and backpedaled.

It had been a long time since someone had tried to kick a gun out of Bolan’s hand, and the last would-be Bruce Lee who had tried it had received lead for his trouble. Salami grinned and slowly began to dance from side to side to Brazilian rhythms only he could hear. By the size of the man’s pupils Bolan suspected Salami was drugged up and feeling no pain. “How do you like that, ese?”

He shot a smug grin at the cop. “Hey, Kaino! How’s your chin?”

Kaino cocked his revolvers.

Salami howled in most likely meth-fueled glee. “Gonna do your little gringo friend like I did you, Kaino! Except worse!”

“Yo! Hombre!” Kaino leveled his weapons. “Let me grease this Falkland Island craving little prick once and for all!”

Salami shrieked in nationalistic outrage. “That’s the Islas Malvinas!”

Bolan watched Salami’s feet. “We came here to talk.”

Salami turned purple as he danced. “Talk? Fuck talk! Go ahead! Go for your second gun! You watch what happens! You want a talk with me, you gotta earn it! Show me something, puto!”

Bolan held up his hands in peace. “I told you I came to talk.”

“¡Maricón!” Salami spun into another blur and his heel scythed for Bolan’s temple. The soldier snatched off his cap by the bill and slapped it into the oncoming foot. Salami screamed as his talus bone cracked. His spinning kick turned into a spinout and he hit the floor in an ugly pinwheel of limbs. He screamed again as Bolan whipped his hat against his elbow.

Kaino stared in wonderment. “What the fuck?”

Bolan tossed Kaino his Pirates cap. Kaino caught it on the muzzle of his left-hand gun. He fondled the cap with his right trigger finger and stopped as he found the packet of impact material sewn high inside the brow. “What the hell?”

“Slap cap.”

Kaino grinned from ear to ear. “Oh, I gotta have one! Tell me they make these in Miami Heat!”

Bolan kept his eyes on the crying, cracked-ankle-hugging Salami on the floor and recovered his Beretta. “That can be arranged.”

Kaino sailed the cap back at Bolan. “Sweet!”

Bolan caught it and sat on his heels beside the gangbanger. “So, Baloney? Braunschweiger? Headcheese? What was your processed meat name again?”

“Fuck you!”

Bolan cocked back the cap in his hand.

“No more hat!”

“How much hat you receive is up to you, Summer Sausage.”

“I want my lawyer...” Salami mewled.

“No lawyers here. Just you, me, Kaino and God.”

“Oh, God...”

“And God’s busy. So he sent me,” Bolan said.

“Who are you!”

“You tell me.”

Salami gulped, shuddered and went from pale to green with the telltale nausea of broken bones.

“Don’t you puke on my shoes,” Bolan warned. “Now, who am I?”

“You’re El Hombre...” Salami whispered.

“That’s right. So I have one question for you. Who’s supplying you with codeine?”

Salami blinked. “What?”

“Cocodrilo’s main ingredient is codeine. Codeine is a controlled substance that requires a physician’s prescription to obtain and a pharmaceutical lab to manufacture. Cocodrilo needs codeine in bulk for production. Tell me who’s supplying it and I’ll leave you alone.”

“I don’t know!”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Bolan asked.

“I mean I don’t know!”

Bolan packed the brim of his cap into his palm several times for emphasis. “Last chance, Lunch Meat.”

“No one! I mean I don’t know!”

“You don’t cook it?” Bolan asked.

“No way, man!”

Bolan frowned.

“Man, only the junkies cook it! And they’re ripping off drugstores and burglarizing their grandma’s medicine cabinets and shit! We get it prepackaged!”

Bolan regarded the hobbled, panic-attacking drug dealer at his feet for long moments.

Kaino waved his revolvers. “You believe this shit?”

“Do you?”

“Well, that is the thing,” Kaino admitted. “The labs we’ve found aren’t set up for distribution. Just junkies cooking themselves to death and anyone who can pay. There’s too much product and not enough producers. Give him the hat again. Just to verify.”

Salami shrieked and clutched his ankle and elbow. “No more hat!”

“All right, then one last question.” Bolan leaned in close. “Who distributes to you?”

Salami shuddered. “Oh, God...”

CHAPTER FOUR

Safehouse

“So it’s a shell game.” Kaino bit off half a Cuban sandwich of his own making and chewed meditatively. “And the game is where’s the codeine at.”

Bolan also ate a sandwich, and cleaned his Beretta on the kitchen table. Rubber bullets made for interesting bore cleaning. “That seems to be the size of it. I just can’t see any underground local manufacturer.”

“What about a mainstream manufacturer?” Kaino suggested. “Keeping double books and diverting the goods to the streets.”

“I have people on that angle, but it’s not my first guess.”

“You think the Russians are smuggling it in?”

Bolan had been giving that a lot of thought. “Hard to imagine the Russian mafia smuggling codeine across the Atlantic just so local croc-heads can cook it at pocket change prices. Hard to see the profit margin being worth it, much less the logistics of the endeavor.”

“You think it’s someplace a lot closer to home.”

“Whoever is doing this is doing it through the Latino gangs in Florida. That’s our connection until something better pops up. We pound them until something breaks open.”

“Listen, man, I do admire your style.”

“Thanks. But?”

“I mean, I love hammering the bad guys with the semiauto Pez dispensers.”

“Who doesn’t?”

Kaino laughed. “Yeah, but all the pencil erasers at hostile velocity, flash-bangs and tear gas in the world aren’t going to break this organization. This can’t last. We’re about to take it up to distributor level. Man, I just don’t how much longer your less-than-lethal approach is going to work.”

“I agree. We keep playing it like this, the bad guys are going to start thinking we get squeamish at the sight of blood. Assuming his people haven’t already beheaded him, Salami is most likely going to snort himself a sinus load of chemical courage, lose his fear of the hat and want some payback.”