Justice by Fire

handed one to Rivera, two to Jefferson.

'His hands and his ankles.'

Heaving and thrashing, Prescott fought once more against Blancanales on top of him, his throat making a high, whining sound. Blancanales slammed Prescott's head into the rotted carpet again and again until Prescott stopped struggling. He lay still, his face in the ancient filth of the carpet, gagging.

Rivera studied the plastic loop. He determined how it worked, then cinched it tight around the prisoner's wrists. Jefferson, too, linked one strand to the next to secure Prescott's ankles.

'Here,' Blancanales motioned to Jefferson. 'One foot on his neck while I search him. Don't break it.'

As Blancanales went through the lawyer's pockets, Jefferson put a jogging shoe on the lawyer's neck. He bore down and joked. 'Well, imagine this, Bobby. You had me all set up. Sold me out, sold out the Riveras, sold out your country. Must've been a real laugh in Buckley's office, listening to me talk, watching me shake while I looked outside at the goons. And all the time I was talking to a goon.' He pressed his foot down slightly.

Prescott gasped.

Blancanales found the folded map. He looked at the red-ink directions. He passed the map to Jefferson.

'You know Los Angeles? What sort of neighborhood is that?'

Reading the names of the freeways and boulevards, glancing at the position of the Los Angeles International Airport to double-check, Jefferson shook his head.

'No one lives there. Not there. I did free-lance background on gang punks because I speak Spanish and look like a ghetto punk. I went there. Looks like a nuke zone, nadaland... 'land of nothing'… that's where he was taking the Riveras! There, man, there!'

Motioning Jefferson aside, Blancanales resumed the interrogation. He held the map in front of Prescott's face.

'Are they waiting there? Answer me.'

'I'll sue you for everything you have...'

Blancanales drove a fist into the side of the lawyer's head. Prescott groaned. He strained against the plastic handcuffs, finally went limp again.

'You threatened me,' Blancanales told him, his voice calm, quiet. 'Don't do that. Understand your position. You are a prisoner. Your life depends on your cooperation. You are very lucky my partner, Ironman is not here. You give him some chickenshit threat like a lawsuit and he will take you apart. He'll do it. Or maybe I'll do it.'

Blancanales stabbed a finger at the red-ink address. 'We've got the location. Now I'm giving you the opportunity to help us. Help us, and you go to a clean, safe prison. Don't help us and… Floyd, que piensas?'

'What do we do to him?'

'Use your imagination.' Blancanales gave Jefferson a wink.

'I don't have to imagine anything,' the reporter said. 'I saw the pictures of the Rivera boy...'

Prescott thrashed and jerked at his restraints.

Blancanales smiled and nodded. 'This guy saw the pictures, too. But I got a better idea than that. We're going to give you to the Blancos. A one-way ticket to El Salvador. And a letter of thanks for helping us wipe out Los Guerreros Blancos...'

Prescott screamed. Blancanales punched his head again.

'Quiet.'

'Little Bobbie Prescott's afraid of that.' Jefferson laughed.

'Now will you cooperate?' Blancanales asked him.

'I was to take… the family there. Madrano's waiting. With his men. I don't know anything else. Nothing else.'

'Where are they waiting? Is it a house? A warehouse?'

'They only… they gave me that map.'

Blancanales heard paper rustling. He saw Jefferson returning his sawed-off shotgun to its shopping-bag camouflage. From astride Prescott, Blancanales shook his head.

'You're staying here, Floyd.'

'What? You'll need me. There'll be an army of goons waiting for you.'

'No.'

'Ask the other guys. They know I'm qualified.'

'I'm not saying you're not qualified. You proved yourself the first night. But you're staying here. Don't argue. No compromises. You stay.'

'Sheeee — it, man! I'm the one they tried to kill. And Marquez was my friend. He got me started when I left college. I owe it to him...'

'And what if a bullet takes you? Mr. Holt wanted to have you testify to Congress, right? Now you've got something to talk about. You stay here, then you go to Congress, then you go to court when Prescott goes on trial. It's your duty. Let us do ours.'

'Sheee — it…'

Senor Rivera spoke. 'Floyd, I would feel much safer if you stay. We only have a knife. You have a gun. Please stay. You are brave, but I have only a knife to defend my wife and daughters. Por favor.'

'Of course, sir. I will. I understand. Okay, Rosario? I stay.'

Blancanales nodded, resumed his interrogation of Prescott by seizing the back of his shirt collar and pulling tight as he leaned forward to speak into Prescott's ear. 'Now, how many men?'

'I saw… five or six or eight. Many men in a room. They had those machine guns made in Israel. Like the Secret Service carries.'

'Good.' Blancanales stood. He glared down at Prescott. 'Up. We're going...'

'No! They'll torture me. They'll...'

'Forget what they'll do. Think about what we'lldo.'

* * *

Gallucci cursed as he watched the broad-shouldered Hispanic escort Prescott from the hotel. The man took the car keys from Prescott and opened the driver's door. He checked the interior before shoving Prescott inside. Then the Hispanic went to the passenger side and opened the door.

The receiver in Gallucci's car blared out noise again, the slamming of the doors, the jingling of keys, voices.

'What's this radio for?' a deep voice demanded.

'Captain Madrano gave it to me. In case I got lost, I could contact them.'

Squeaks. Then the rustling of papers. Then a slam as the 'specialist' closed the glove-compartment door. The minimike transmitted only muffled sounds and the vibrations of the car's starter.

Almost two blocks away, Gallucci punched the dashboard in anger. He had no doubt Prescott had broken. He would lead the 'specialists' directly to Captain Madrano. Gallucci had to set the contingency plans in motion. Warn Madrano. Get the standby hit team in motion. Then wipe out Prescott and the 'specialists.'

Prescott would cooperate with the Justice Department. He had to die. All of them had to die: Prescott, the 'specialists,' the Riveras, that high-yellow nigger Floyd Jefferson.

The situation had to be sterilized.

He pressed the transmit key of the walkie-talkie. 'Calling my friend, this is the federali…'

Only static answered him. He repeated his transmission. 'Calling my friend, this is the federali. Come in, important message about the girls…'

Out of range! The walkie-talkie's signal could not penetrate the steel and concrete of central Los Angeles and cross the ten or twelve miles to Captain Madrano's squad.

Starting the engine of his federal vehicle, Gallucci considered tailing Prescott and his captor. No. They might rendezvous with a squad of 'specialists,' or they might interrogate Prescott before attempting to arrest the Salvadorans. Gallucci's first move must be to warn Madrano and get the hit team in motion.