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When the guy sensed Bolan wasn’t a pushover, he said, “Yeah, okay, so who doesn’t work for Miguel?”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“Yeah, okay. I work for Miguel. Whatever gets you through the day. Okay, man?”
The guy made some kind of gang sign, but Bolan let it pass. “You were going to tell me something.”
“Yeah, sure,” the guy said, taking another drink as if trying to build up courage. “You want to know who did the deed the other night in San Juan, no?”
“Yeah.”
“It was them dudes down here. Guys over on the north side of town.”
“What guys?”
“I don’t know, man,” the young man said irritability. “They some guys from the States, man. Guys from your home turf, man.”
“Americans?”
“No, these no Americans. These guys aren’t even white, man. These dudes are like al Qaeda or something.”
The hairs stood on the back of Bolan’s neck. “You’re saying these men are terrorists?”
“I guess so, if that’s what you say.”
“It’s not what I said, it’s what you just said.”
Bolan found this guy more frustrating by the moment. Right now, he didn’t have time for games. He couldn’t understand why Miguel Veda would have sent him on a wild-goose chase to Las Mareas if he didn’t have anything to hide. Unless Veda was stalling, in which case that would’ve clinched the party leader’s guilt. For now Bolan knew he’d have to find a way to work with this guy. Yet something deep in the Executioner’s gut told him he could be walking into a trap.
Bolan shook his head. “Look, if you have information for me then spill. Otherwise, I’m out of here.”
“Look, man, all I do is what Mr. Veda says. I tell you only what I see, which is all I can tell you, ’cause I don’t know nothing else.”
“All right,” Bolan said. “Tell me where I might find these terrorists.”
“They have a club on the north side of town, I think.” He leaned back in his chair and scratched his belly thoughtfully. “I can give you an address, but if you want it you got to pay.”
“First the address and then the money,” Bolan replied coolly.
The man stared at Bolan for a time and then finally shrugged, leaned forward, grabbed a pen from the table and quickly scribbled a barely legible address on a scrap of paper. He then set the pen down with a pronounced movement and promptly held out his hand. Bolan scooped up the paper, made sure he could read the address and then dug into his pocket. He handed the guy a fifty-dollar bill as he rose and turned to leave. Under other circumstances he might not have turned his back on a crew like this, but he didn’t think they would try to burn him at this point. They had plenty of opportunities to take him out, and neither of them had given him any reason to suspect they would try something now. Bolan traversed the hallway as quickly as possible, went out the door and within a minute he and Grimaldi were headed for a barrio in uptown Guayama.
“FOR PITY’S SAKE!” Guadalupe La Costa snapped. “Will you step on it already, Julio? At the rate we’re going I’ll have grandkids before we get there.”
“I’ve got it pegged now,” Parmahel protested. “These things won’t go over fifty-five miles per hour. If you’d like to get out and push, that might help.”
La Costa thought about cursing him out with a string of obscenities, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. She considered apologizing, but then simply sighed, slid down the seat and closed her eyes. She was acting like a bitch and she knew it, but in her defense that damned Colonel Stone had utterly messed with her head. La Costa knew better than to have trusted him; she learned many years ago that most men eventually lied, cheated or just simply broke hearts. They couldn’t help it—it was in their blood.
Julio had always been different though, which is probably why their partnership had worked out so well over the past year. In one way, she regretted the thought of parting company with Stone, but this story would make her career and she wasn’t about to let anyone hold her back. Especially not some cocky and arrogant military type with a Neanderthal protective instinct.
Of course the possibility remained that she wouldn’t find Stone in time, in which case she’d not only be out of a story, but also most likely a job. It still made sense on some level, however, to risk it. Beside the fact, she stood a pretty good chance of finding out what was going on without Stone’s help, and if she came back with exclusive news and videotape her producer couldn’t possibly be angry with her. Yeah, that was the answer. She had to come back with something really big and really juicy. How else to keep her job?
She opened her eyes just in time to catch the sign marking the city limits of Guayama.
At long last they had arrived!
“Well, it looks like we finally made it. Now all we have to do is find Stone.”
“What’s so important about this Colonel Stone?” Parmahel asked. “I mean, it’s not like the guy’s going to tell you anything. He already screwed you over once. What makes you think he won’t do it again?”
“My goodness, Julio. Haven’t you learned anything working with me? You don’t honestly think I’m going to let Stone rip me off from my story, do you? He told me I had to stay in San Juan, but you see how that worked out.”
“Why do I get this strange feeling that you’re getting us into something really messy and really dangerous?”
“I don’t think it is dangerous,” La Costa replied. She batted her eyelashes at Parmahel. “You don’t honestly think I would jeopardize your life and mine on a whim.”
Parmahel scratched absently at his neck. “Well, after working with you for this long I’m not exactly sure what kind of crazy stunts you might pull. And the last time I checked, there were guys with guns shooting at us.”
“They weren’t really shooting at us.”
“Okay, my bad, they were shooting around us! Which is pretty much the same as shooting at us in my book.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, Julio?”
“Guess I’m just addicted to breathing,” he said.
La Costa chuckled and punched his arm. “Just stick with me, my friend. I’ll show you the time of your life.”
CHAPTER SIX
Guadalupe La Costa knew of only one person in all Guayama who would answer to Veda, and subsequently have the kind of information that Stone would seek.
La Costa knew him only as Frederico, a drunken and tattooed fool living in Las Mareas who would do anything for a quick buck. And usually did. Not that a little cash didn’t go a long way in Puerto Rico—certainly way more than it did in the States. And if there was anything La Costa had it was cash. Actually, the AP compensated her pretty well. In addition to providing her travel expenses while she worked, they had also arranged for very affordable housing through coop apartment homes and condos. La Costa shared a two-bedroom apartment with another reporter who handled the night beat. This way, she was able to sock away a lot more than if she had a place on her own.
They found Frederico in his usual place, doing his usual drinking and scratching his rear and avoiding anything resembling hard labor, seated on the front porch of the run-down motel owned by his aged mother. Frederico