Mickey Spillane - The Killing Man

"Beautiful," I said. "We wait for them to make another run on us."

"Not this time, Mike. You drop the code leading to a truckload of coke down our throats and we're going to treat you like royalty until it shows up. They don't know we own Anthony DiCica's little secret. Well, once it's in our hands they can go back to business as usual. You're going to be our little secret too."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked him.

"Simple, pal. We're taking you and Velda right out of the action. Both of you are too important as witnesses and possible targets to be exposed during the mop-up. I know damn well you're not going to let her out of your sight, so we're setting both of you up at a safe house of our choosing. Any objections?"

"No."

"Good. I thought you'd do it my way for once. You'll be covering Velda and we'll be covering both of you just in case. It may seem redundant, but we don't want to take any chances."

I nodded and looked back at the buildings passing by.

The truck slowed, edging toward the curb, and pulled to a stop in front of the apartment building. The way the doorman came out to run us off you'd think we were from Mars, but when the blue uniforms showed, he backed off fast, held the doors open while the gurney came out and helped get it on the service elevator. I squeezed on beside it, and when I did, Velda's eyes fluttered, then opened, and she looked at me. She didn't know what had happened or where she was, but she knew me and smiled.

Candace was waiting at her apartment and she wasn't alone. Bennett Bradley and Lewis Ferguson were deep in conversation, and Coleman and Carmody were at the bar. They stopped what they were doing to help get Velda into the bedroom where Burke Reedey was laying out his supplies. There was nothing I could do so I went to the bar and made a drink for myself.

"Make one for me too, please," Candace said.

I mixed the highball, turned around and handed it to her. "Appreciate your lending us the apartment."

"And I appreciate your trying to make me president."

"They shoot at presidents," I said.

"They shoot at cops too."

We clinked glasses, each taking a good pull at a drink. "How is Ray doing with the code?"

"All we can do is wait. He's linked in with Washington and Langley, and all we know is that it isn't an ultrasophisticated concept. Apparently he had a working knowledge of codes, and with the repetition the computers can deliver, it shouldn't take long."

"Who's going on the bust?"

"A select group. We're assuming it's within driving distance and the coordination is coming under federal jurisdiction. They can organize assistance from any local police departments if they have to."

"Where do you stand?"

"In the catbird seat, my wonderful friend." She looked past me and pointed.

Pat was finishing with the cops who had brought Velda up and was waving me over to the table where the men were conferring over a map. They had circled out an area in New York State northwest of Kingston with Phoenicia as a hub. Ferguson was a ski buff and knew the area well, but best of all, he had access to a cottage in the mountainous section and had outlined the entry roads and was explaining the place's benefits.

"From the building there is good three-hundred-sixty-degree visibility. Power comes in from the road, but the place is equipped with emergency Coleman lanterns, a hand pump for water if the power goes out, and always has a good supply of split logs on hand for the fireplace."

He shaded in a section on the map and explained, "The house sits . . . here." He tapped the pencil to indicate the spot. "And approximately fifty yards away toward the road are two stone outcroppings, excellent positions as guard posts. A man can be stationed at both positions with a good field of fire that would cover anyone trying to gain entry."

"What about the rear?" I asked him.

"A sheer cliff almost sixty feet high. They'd have to drop in by parachute. The foliage is just too thick for anybody to break through up there without a dozen machetes or brushhooks."

Pat said, "We're not dealing with trained woodsmen, Mike."

"You can buy them, kiddo."

"Not as fast as we can move."

I took another jolt of the highball. "Let's give the other side a little credit. Suppose they had an observer at the hospital to catch the action. Suppose he saw what was going on and followed the truck back here."

"What's your point, Mike?"

"How are we getting out of this place without being spotted? They have men, money and machinery going for them too. They could have spotters with radios as well as the cops."

Pat gave me one of his noncommittal gestures again. "Suppose you just let us take care of that."

After what he pulled with the blast at the hospital, I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Sure, pal, sorry," I said. I finished the drink and went back for another one. Candace had it ready for me. For the first time that evening I took a close look at her. There was no dress this time, just a beautifully tailored khaki jumpsuit that would look fashionable as hell at a cocktail party or would be casually efficient for a field sweep. Whatever she had in mind, she was ready for it. Those big sensual eyes were almost iridescent with anticipation, and the tautness of her body showed right through the twill of the jumpsuit.

She knew I was going to say something.

She was waiting to hear it.

The phone rang. Instantly, the room went quiet. She picked up the receiver. When she scanned the room with one quick glance and nodded, we knew she was talking to Ray Wilson. She picked up a ballpoint pen, stripped a page off the pad beside the phone and began writing down the instructions. She finished, thanked him and hung up.

"We have the location of the truck," she said. "It's in a barn on a farm north of Lake Hopatcong on Route Ninety-four, just before coming into Hamburg."

Bennett Bradley said, "I'll alert the Jersey highway patrol, and they can pick us up on the other side of the George Washington Bridge with an escort."

"You want any county police on this?"

"Forget it," Bradley told him. "We don't want to divulge any details of the site." He went back to the map they were using for our relocation and found what he was looking for. "Here," he said. "We'll have two more cars meet us at the junction of Routes Fifteen and Ninety-four." He picked up the phone, called the operator for the number of the Jersey highway patrol, then dialed it.

Ferguson was thumbing through a pocket-size pad of his own and told Carmody, "If we start crossing agency lines on this, we'll have one hell of a mess. Now, who wants it?"

"How many men do you think we'll need?" Carmody asked him.

"At least a dozen, heavily armed, to guard that stuff. We may be able to keep the raid quiet, but we can't plan on it."

"That load has got to be moved out. If the trailer's in good shape, we'll need a tractor to haul it and at least four mobile units for cover. The state guys can lead and be the tail on the convoy."

"Okay," Frank Carmody told him. "This whole thing is going to be interstate, so let me handle it. The FBI can get on this from our local offices a lot faster than Langley can. That satisfactory?"

"Fine by me," Ferguson agreed. "I'll stay on this end getting Hammer and his lady out of the area. Now, what's the time schedule going to be like?"

Both of them glanced at Bradley, who was putting the phone down. "That guy's ready right now," Carmody muttered.

"He wants to make some points before his replacement gets here. Can't blame him at all. However, he waits on this one. That stuff has been there so long a few more days won't matter. The major thing is we know where it is and we don't want to chance losing it at this point by a lot of hasty maneuvering."