eyes narrowed at a very nasty, ragged laceration across the Russian’s medial deltoid. The wound looked as though an animal might have made it. Kaino let out a long breath between his teeth and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Blackjack?” Bolan suggested.
“Close. I’d say a flat, beavertail slapjack sap with a coil spring in the handle, lead- and clay-loaded. A snap of the wrist will break bones. You swing side-on—” Kaino nodded at the Russian’s wound “—they’ll cut right through flesh. Jeez, there was an old-timer on the force when I first came out of the academy. He could put his halfway through the Miami phone book with a good windup.”
“Miami-Dade doesn’t use saps anymore, do they?”
“Nope.” The master sergeant sighed wistfully as he gazed backward into a bright, shining, never-to-return time in Florida law enforcement. “Banned them years ago.”
“Someone worked over our Russians.”
“Someone beat them like rugs.”
“Popov,” Bolan asked, “who did this to you?”
Popov clenched his teeth. Bolan calculated the look in the Russian gangster’s eyes. There seemed to be a genuine battle raging in Popov’s guts as to whom he was more afraid of, the warrior in front of him or the interrogators who had left him and his men in this sorry state. Popov was a genuine tough guy, but Bolan was beginning to think that whoever had interrogated Popov had gotten what they wanted out of him. Bolan smiled coldly. He wasn’t a torturer, but he had no qualms about letting his enemies think that he was.
“Popov, I’m going to start by dropping a hammer on every injury you already have, and then I’m going to start inflicting new ones. Who did this?”
Sweat broke out on Popov’s bruised brow. He hissed a single word through his teeth. “Zetas!”
“Well, just, shit,” Kaino opined.
Bolan weighed the Russian’s response. Zetas weren’t good. None of the Mexican cartels and their gangs were good news, but the Zetas had originally been Mexican Special Forces soldiers who had received special training by the U.S. Army Rangers at Fort Benning. Many of the Mexican soldiers had finally thrown up their hands and gone to work for the Gulf Coast Cartel as muscle. In the end the Zetas had gone independent and were now at war with their former Gulf Coast employers.
“We’re out of here.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it, unless you want to add something?”
“As a matter of fact I do.” Popov gasped as Kaino ground the barrel of one of his revolvers into the gangster’s injured arm and pressed the other between Popov’s eyes. “Stop calling yourself Papi. That’s Puerto Rican. We own that, and you don’t have privileges.”
Popov glowered.
Kaino ground the muzzles of his pistols in Popov like he was drilling for oil. “Say it!”
“I am no longer to be calling myself Papi! You own that! I do not have privileges!”
Kaino holstered his guns. “Smart boy.”
CHAPTER THREE
Safehouse
Bolan gazed long and hard at his files. Krokodil was just about the worst thing he had ever come across. He had seen the results of weaponized flesh-eating bacteria, but he had never seen that kind of damage self-inflicted. Bolan shook his head and clicked out of the horrific catalog of flesh eaten down to the dermis and bones showing through suppurating muscle tissue. Bolan had dedicated himself to a War Everlasting against organized human evil. He would be damned if he let this drug get a foothold in the United States. Bolan couldn’t bring himself to hate the junkies, the cooks or even the dealers. From all his research, when it came to krokodil they were all one and the same. They lived to fix until they died looking like extras in a zombie film, but some organization had introduced this filth into Florida.
Bolan intended to introduce himself to those individuals directly.
Kaino sat cleaning and oiling his twin .357s. Had the revolvers not been finished a lustrous gunmetal blue they would have sparkled. “You’re not buying the Zeta shit.”
“According to my source, they seem to have the most reliable supply of crocodile here in the metropolitan area.”
“That jibes with what I know, as well, but I stand by my statement. You’re not buying the Zetas roughing up Popov and his playmates.”
“No, if the Zetas had paid a visit to the Tea Room there would have been a bloodbath, and assuming they came out on top, their method of inquiry would have included lopping off limbs and heads. For that matter, most of the original Zetas who were Special Forces operators are dead. Those who are still around are the equivalent of generals in the cartel. They don’t do field ops anymore, and they sure as hell don’t leave Mexico. On top of that, I’m thinking Masterkeying a door is a little bit above the brains and pay grade of their local street gang affiliates here in Florida. Popov and his pals got worked by pros, like you and me, and they were deliberately left alive.”
“You think they’re under observation,” Kaino stated.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“You think we got observed going in?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Bolan said.
“Great, we’ve been made.”
“You worried about getting slap-jacked the same way?”
“Hell no.” Kaino grinned and reached into the bag he had taken from his apartment. He pulled out a twelve inch beavertail sap that was scuffed from long use, dry from long storage but shined with recent buffing. “I’m looking forward to meeting the competition.”
“I thought you said Miami-Dade banned those.”
“I’m on an open-ended, paid, consulting leave of absence. I’m interpreting that to mean I have a great deal of leeway in my operational and equipment requirement paradigms.
“So, you want to drop in on Los Zetas, anyway?”
“I think we’ll start with the local affiliates and work our way up the food chain. I’m looking at you for a place to start.”
“Oh, I got a place we can start.” Kaino slapped the sap into his palm.
* * *
B OLAN EYED THE DRUG fortress. It was an old, brick, two-story business building that had once housed an accounting firm. The windows were now barred and boarded. The front door was shiny stainless steel with a security camera above it, and a requisite oversize gangbanger stood in front mad-dogging anyone who walked by. The street was busy, but the locals made an extra effort to cross the street and not walk by. “Who lives here again?”
“A Zeta asshole named Salami.” Kaino handed Bolan a file.
Walter “Salami” Salemo had hair halfway down his back, wore a big white pirate shirt and stared into the mug shot camera with brown-eyed earnestness. The Salami looked like he should have been playing The Beatles’ “Rocky Raccoon” on a twelve-string guitar in a coffee bar someplace instead of being one of Miami-Dade’s most notorious meth distributors. According to the file, Salami had recently moved into moving crocodile.
Kaino waved his hand impatiently at the photo. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, but don’t let the noble-faired, long-haired, leaping-gnome look fool you. This guy Salami is a total dick.” Kaino poked a puckered scar on his chin Bolan had assumed was from his boxing career. “I got the scars to prove it. This guy will fool you. He nearly took my head off a few years back. Practices capoeira and shit.”
Bolan duly noted Salami’s martial arts background and raised an eyebrow at the man’s résumé. “Argentine?”
“The