It would be the Colombians, he knew, and Frankie Scars was cursing, digging for his side arm, searching for a target in the firelight. From the shadows of the warehouse, several of the stevedores were firing blindly from the cover of a forklift, spraying useless rounds. Frankie Scars was braced to make a run for their position, take his chances with the unseen gunners in the darkness when a larger weapon coughed out there, beyond the margin of the firelight, and the forklift suddenly exploded into flames. He saw two bodies airborne, others wallowing across the pavement in a lake of fire, and something snapped inside of Frankie Scars.
He bolted, giving up his meager cover, and pounded back into the warehouse toward the distant sanctuary of his office and the weapons hidden there. He would surprise the bastards yet, if only he could get his hands on some of the artillery he kept in case of an emergency.
Before he made a dozen strides, the mobster's legs were cut from under him. He did an awkward belly flop and felt the pistol skitter from his fingers, lost before he could react. It took a moment — too damned long — for Frankie to regain the feeling in his legs, and when it hit him, there was nothing he could do but scream.
From out of nowhere one of the attackers loomed above him, reaching out and rolling Frankie over with his foot. From where he lay, the big bastard didn't look like a Colombian, all dressed in black that way, but you could never tell. The mobster's full attention focused on the cannon in his hand, and Frankie recognized it at a glance. It was a frigging M-16, with something like a stovepipe mounted underneath the barrel. He didn't have to ask the bastard what it was — not after sitting through selected clips from Scarface seven times.
"What the hell..."
He knew precisely what the gunner wanted, but he was intent on buying time. One of his own hitters might emerge from hiding, pop the bastard where he stood.
But no one came to rescue Frankie Scars.
The man in black crouched beside him with the muzzle of his cannon smack in Frankie's face.
"Somebody has a package that belongs to me," he said. "Somebody should deliver while they can."
"A package?"
"Spread the word."
The guy was rising, leaving. Frankie Scars could not believe that he was going to survive. He didn't understand a fucking word the guy had said, but he would spread the word, yes. They would be hearing him from hell to Sunday once somebody got him out of there, tried to save his legs. He had no wish to spend the rest of his forsaken life as Frankie Stumps.
It was eternity before he heard the sirens, heralding the swift approach of fire trucks, with an ambulance, and at the sound of their arrival, Frankie Scars wondered where he went wrong in his life.
11
Susan Landry had tried Brognola's office first and had been advised that he was "on holiday," but she could not let it go that easily. She had his private number, legacy of her encounter with "John Phoenix" and the Stony Man debacle, and she dialed it from a roadside booth, surprised when Hal had answered on the second ring. His voice was tense and strained; he fairly snapped at her before she had a chance to speak. Afraid that he would deny the interview immediately, she had mumbled something incoherent, hastily apologizing for her error, hanging up and racing for her car.
The address had required more effort than Brognola's private number, but she had a contact with Ma Bell, and she had marked Hal's street for reference on her map before she left the office. He would be surprised to see her, certainly; he might demand to know how she had found him. Long experience had taught her that it was more difficult for men to dodge an interview in person. Even if he slammed the door in Susan's face, there was a decent chance that some remark would point her toward another source of information. Susan Landry recognized her personal effect on men, and she was not ashamed of using any means at her disposal to secure a story. She had never bargained sex for information, but if femininity could open certain doors, so much the better.
Everything she knew about Brognola told her he was a devoted family man, conservative, traditional, and Susan knew that she would have to be discreet in her approach. If nothing else, his tone of voice had flashed a warning signal to her, urging caution. Something had Brognola on edge, and whether it was a suspension from his job or something else entirely, Susan realized that she could not approach the subject like a scandalmonger who wrote for one of those newspapers found at supermarket checkouts. Some sophistication was required, and Susan felt that she was equal to the task.
She found Brognola's street and made a single driveby to confirm his car was parked outside before she doubled back and nosed her Honda in against the curb. She double-checked her equipment — the compact recorder in her purse, the notebook, pens — then climbed the concrete steps to Hal Brognola's porch.
She pressed the doorbell, waited, tried a second time before she heard the cautious sound of footsteps from within. The door swung open and Brognola stood before her, looking older than the woman had remembered him from Texas, a few months earlier. The wrinkles — worry lines? — were deeply etched into his face, around his mouth, his eyes. It was the eyes that struck her hardest, peering out from under bushy brows and looking cornered, trapped.
He should remember her from Texas, from the Phoenix flameout, but the lady wasn't taking any chances.
"Susan Landry, with the..."
"Yes," he interrupted her, "I know."
"I wonder if you might have time to answer several questions."
"Questions?"
Susan noted that his eyes had shifted past her, scanning along the street in both directions. Perhaps he was expecting camera crews to spring out of the shrubbery.
"If I might just step inside..."
"What kind of questions?"
Fair enough. She dropped the smile and forged ahead. "It's been reported by a confidential source that you have been suspended from your post at Justice, pending an investigation into certain charges of administrative impropriety."
Brognola's smile was crooked, bitter. "I'm on holiday," he told her. "Three-day weekend."
"Any comment on the charges? The investigation?"
She was on the edge. It would be simple for him to deny the rumor, close the door and leave her standing there. It would not put her off the track, of course, but it could slow her down, and he must know as much. Another visual sweep up and down the street, and then Brognola stepped aside to clear the doorway.
"Come with me."
He closed and double-locked the door behind her, led the way along a corridor that seemed to more or less divide the house, with bedrooms on the right, the parlor, kitchen, dining room to Susan's left. He steered her toward the breakfast nook and found a stool on one side of a counter topped in decorative tile. She sat across the counter, facing him.
"What do you want to know?"
Presented thus, devoid of shadowboxing, the inquiry took her by surprise.
"I'm interested in your side of the story," Susan told him simply, settling back to wait.
Brognola mulled it over for a moment, glancing at his watch as if the time held great importance for him, and again the lady felt that he was worried by something more than the potential ruination of a proud career in law enforcement. When he spoke, the big Fed's tone was curt, his phrases clipped and economical.