The Council of Ten (16 page)

He knew the walking was just an excuse, an excuse to put off his approach to the Timber Wolf, a stranger who had no reason to believe and even less to help him. But Drew clung to the hope that he would because he
was
the Timber Wolf, a true champion of the innocent, a man beside whom even Mace had paled by comparison.

The little that Drew actually knew about the Timber Wolf had been pried out of Mace during quiet night hours in the mercenary camp. His real name was Peter Wayman, proclaimed the Timber Wolf for his ability to stalk and kill those who had taken innocent American lives abroad. The Timber Wolf’s skills were purely retaliatory. Never was he summoned until an atrocity had been committed. Mace claimed that he had once been the most feared man in the world by the terror network, and, all things considered, the most deadly, dangerous man anywhere.

Once …

Then he had quit, dropped out. It was just after Corsica, one of the landmarks of his career, which had seen him at his legendary best. No one knew why, not even Mace. His services were still requested but no longer offered. The best had taken himself out of the game for reasons only he knew.

But he remained the Timber Wolf. Mace had sent Drew here because he must have known that, known that Wayman was the one man alive who might be able to get him out of this with the help of Mace’s bloodied sheets of paper, which contained thirty addresses scattered all over the country.

Drew started to raise his finger for the buzzer.

The house beyond the gate was brown wood with inlays of brick, modern in structure with a large carport in place of a garage. A Mercedes was parked beneath it, shining and bright. The yard was not large but well sculptured.

Drew steeled his courage and pressed the buzzer. Seconds passed and it seemed no one was going to answer, so he buzzed again and then a third time.

“Yes?” came a voice out of the intercom speaker. A man’s voice. It had to be the Timber Wolf.

Drew swallowed hard. “Mr. Wayman?”

“Who is this?”

“You don’t know me. A friend of yours sent me.”

“I asked who you were.”

“My name is Drew Jordan. I don’t expect that to mean anything to you. That friend of yours sent me here for help.”

“He sent you to the wrong place,” the voice said coldly.

“No,” Drew begged. “Please. That friend of yours, they killed him and now they’re after me. Just let me come in and talk to you. You’ll understand.”

There was a pause, then a high-pitched buzz as the steel gate unlocked itself mechanically.

“Walk straight up the driveway,” the voice instructed through the box. “Keep your hands where I can see them and don’t so much as step one foot off the cement. Clear?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Drew stepped inside the gate and did exactly as he was told, approaching a small raised porch before the front door. He saw the door open slowly and kept walking until he was inside the house, feeling the refreshing cool of the air-conditioned atmosphere, embarrassed all at once by his sweat-soaked shirt. It was dark inside. His eyes were having trouble adjusting. He was barely a yard past the doorway.

Peter Wayman kicked the door closed but left the lights off. Drew swung quickly and saw the huge pistol in his hand.

“You shouldn’t move that fast,” the Timber Wolf warned him.

“I’m sorry. I mean, well, it’s just that I’ve been through a lot. It’s all crazy.” Drew paused. “I don’t know where to start.”

“How about with the name of that friend of mine who sent you.”

“His name is—was—Mace. He’s dead. They killed him because he tried to help me.” Drew eyed the Timber Wolf as best he could in the half light.

“I don’t know anyone named Mace.”

Drew felt like he’d been jabbed in the gut. “He said he worked with you. I’ve got something he told me to give you.” Drew produced the pages but the Timber Wolf ignored them.

“Lots of people have worked with me through the years and a lot of them are dead. None of them were friends.”

But Drew held fast. “There’s this mercenary camp in Georgia. That’s where I met Mace. He told me all kinds of stories about you, said thirty of us wouldn’t have stood a chance against you.”

“Yeah. A few years ago maybe.” Wayman stepped forward. Just a little. Drew noted the large revolver in his hand again. The Timber Wolf’s eyes were ice. “What’d you say your name was?”

“Drew Jordan.”

“Well, Drew Jordan, you don’t look much like a mercenary to me.”

“No,” Drew said, despite himself his voice almost a whine. “I’m not, not really. I went to the camp first to write a story about the experience. I went back a few times because I liked it.” He gulped air. “Mace took me under his wing, taught me how to develop an edge. He sent me here because he thought you could help.” Drew realized he was trembling, the sweat still coming in buckets. “I came here because I’ve got nowhere else to go. Mace isn’t the only one who died. There are others, one from my hand and a few more they’ve tried to pin on me. But it wasn’t my fault. I was set up and then—”

“Hold on. Slow down.” Wayman seemed intrigued now as he sized up the young man before him. “I don’t know why, Drew Jordan, but I’m going to listen to what you have to say. Believe me, it goes against my better nature.”

“Thank you. You don’t know how much I—”

“I know your clock’s running and you’d better grab my interest fast. Here, let’s go into the living room.”

Wayman hit a light switch and the foyer was immediately aglow with soft light. He holstered his cannon-size pistol and instructed Drew toward the sunken living room just off to the left, keeping Drew in front of him and reasonably out of striking range at all times. Drew moved stiffly, his motions sluggish as if terrified of making one move too fast for the man behind him. Retired or not, the Timber Wolf remained a chilling figure, ominous not so much in appearance as aura. A feeling radiated from him like an animal in the moments before it lunges into an attack, an undercurrent of suppressed tension and strength. The two men faced each other from matching chairs set ten feet apart and Drew felt as if the pistol were still poised on him.

“I want it all,” Wayman said. “From the beginning.”

Drew’s eyes sharpened as he obliged, starting with his grandmother’s funeral and the letter given to him by Kornbloom. From there he went to his meeting with the man he thought was Masterson and the uneasy, or too easy, alliance forged between them. Finally he recounted the happening at Too-Jay’s and its bizarre aftermath, which left him alone and isolated, and, lastly, his link with Mace, which culminated in the events of the previous night.

In the end Wayman looked somewhat confused but interested. Before speaking, he finally accepted the pages held in Drew’s hands and returned to his seat. “So, what you’re telling me is that Mace was originally hired by the people who killed him to kill you.”

“Not exactly. Mace had another name, another identity. He told everyone in the camp he was a mercenary when he was really an assassin. Selinas or something.”

“Selinas?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“Just of him. Selinas isn’t just any assassin. He’s one of the best. Absolute top of the fucking line.”

“He ran into someone better,” Drew said sadly.

“Someone you got away from.”

“I was lucky.”

“Luck’s never enough, not in this business. You said Selinas, or Mace, killed several people for the employers he eventually turned on.”

“I couldn’t make out much of what he was saying by then.” Drew shrugged. “There were a pair of brothers, Riv-something, and a man named—I think it was Landros.”

The Timber Wolf’s eyebrows flickered. “Or Lantos?”

“Maybe. Why?”

“Because there used to be a guy named Lantos who was quite an assassin himself. Got a bit old for the trade and moved into more mundane work. How he would be connected to Arthur Trelana and this drug business is beyond me, though.”

“But he
is
connected.
Everything’s
connected, including the grandmothers. I’m the one piece whoever is behind it all let slip away and how long that stays the case is probably up to you.”

Drew’s plea seemed to act like a leash on the Timber Wolf, pulling his interest back. His eyes dimmed. The intensity slid from his features, the indifferent chill back.

“You got yourself mixed up with the wrong people, Drew Jordan,” he said finally. “Damn wonder you’re still alive. You came here for my help and now I’m going to give it to you: put yourself in a cab and go to the Miami police. Tell them everything you told me. Take these pages to them.”

Drew felt his whole insides sink. Dry disappointment filled his mouth. His mind wandered strangely back to high school, to the coach’s announcement of the final cut and waiting for his name to be called among the team members. It never was, and now that parched, dull feeling had returned to his mouth, even a swallow denied him.

Wayman stood up impatiently. “Keep running, Drew Jordan, and you’ll only dig yourself a deeper hole. At least now the trail of whatever’s really happening here is still warm. You’ve got a chance of finding the right people to listen, maybe from the police, maybe from somewhere else. Stay on the lam and you’ll just be giving your friend’s killers more time to get you.”

Drew wanted to stop him right there, stop him and say that this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. You’re a hero. You’re supposed to help me. Let’s start all over from the time I hit your buzzer. But he just sat there in silence, gawking lamely ahead.

“You came to me for help,” Wayman continued, starting to walk from the living room up toward the foyer. “I’ve done the best I can. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Drew said with the heaviness forced back. “I mean, if you’ve really done the best you can, what do you have to be sorry for?”

“For not being what you figured I would be. I’m sorry for not living up to whatever it was your friend Mace told you about me.”

Drew was on his feet now, as much angry as disappointed. “He didn’t tell me everything. He didn’t tell me why you quit.”

Wayman’s features froze. “It doesn’t matter. Why should you care?”

“Because it
does
matter, that’s all.” His eyes were on the holstered pistol now, not caring about it anymore. “I know about Corsica and the others. You were the best. No one else even came close. Then all of a sudden you just walked away. It doesn’t figure.”

“Drop it, kid. You don’t know as much as you think you do. Maybe I figured I’d done everything I could. Maybe I figured my luck had run out. What’s the difference?” He opened the front door. “This way, Drew Jordan. If it helps any, I really am sorry. You rang the bell expecting to find the Timber Wolf, and all you got was me.”

Drew stepped up from the living room and stopped even with Wayman near the door. “I’ll leave, but I don’t plan on turning myself in and letting them kill me. I’ve got to keep on the move, that’s the way I see it. I’ve got to find out who’s behind this and get them before they get me. I figure I’ve got to do the best I can at making up my own rules because maybe the world you used to thrive in and this one aren’t so different.” And he started through the door.

“Jordan,” the Timber Wolf called after him, a second call lost in midstream when it was obvious that the young man wasn’t going to turn.

Drew walked on through the gate and made sure it latched tight behind him.

He didn’t see the police cars until he was ten yards down West Broadview Drive still fronting Wayman’s property.

They screeched to a halt from all directions, men lunging from them with guns drawn. Drew barely had time to throw his hands in the air before they were on him, shoving him viciously face first into Wayman’s fence so his flesh kissed steel. One of the cops started reading him his rights. Others were talking, muttering, guns still drawn. He paid no attention, grimacing only when they yanked his hands together behind his back to fasten the handcuffs in place.

And inside the house the Timber Wolf turned away from the window in disgust.

What could I have done?
he asked himself, squeezing the pair of bloodied pages Drew had neglected to retrieve from him.
What could I have done?

Part Four:
Narco-Trafficanté

Chapter 14

THE INTERROGATION ROOM
was not dark and cramped as Drew had expected, but spacious and frighteningly stark, overly bright with too many fluorescent bulbs.

Lieutenant Wexler pulled a chair out from under the single table, swung it around, and straddled it with his arms folded over the back.

“Let’s go over this from the beginning.”

“Why don’t you just listen to the tapes your buddies made?”

“I’d rather start fresh. Something might jar your memory. Can I get you a Coke or something?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. You change your mind, you let me know.” Wexler was probably a decade Drew’s senior. His face was taut and serious, hardly compassionate. “Let’s start with Arthur Trelana. A respected businessman, frequent giver to charities, sponsor of several southern Florida youth programs, and—”

“—an all-around nice guy. Gee whiz, being a major drug trafficker just worked wonders for him.”

“How did you learn he was a drug trafficker?”

“You mean you didn’t know? Sorry to enlighten you… .” And then, “From the letter.”

“The one from your grandmother?”

“I
thought
it was from my grandmother.”

“Right. The letter was a plant to make sure you would call a DEA agent who turned out to be dead for two days so he would help you kill Arthur Trelana.”

“You
did
listen to the tapes. I’m impressed.”

“So, with the help of this fake DEA agent, you went to Too-Jay’s and proceeded to murder Arthur Trelana.”

“No!” Drew broke in, his frustration peaking. “No! No! No! I
didn’t
kill Trelana. The man I told the others about did.”

“Yes. That’s the one you
admit
to killing.”

“Because I didn’t have a choice.”

“Then why have we positively identified the gun you ditched as the weapon that killed Trelana?”