The Narc Series Volume One by Marc Olden

Author:Marc Olden
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504057165
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2018-10-27T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

APACHE STRUCK FAST.

The two D-3 narcotics agents in the Detroit air terminal never got a chance to spot Bolt.

“Agents Riley and Nelson, please report to the manager’s office. A message from Sam Rand.” The metallic-sounding voice came over the loudspeaker, and the two narcotics agents broke into a trot, heading for the office at the opposite end of the waiting room.

Their run would be a long one, and it would take time to push through the crowd. Time. That’s what Apache counted on.

Seconds after the two agents began moving toward the end of the long room, and away from the door they had been watching for an hour, John Bolt, Ortega, Joey Reyes, and Karen stepped through the door out of the falling snow. At seven P.M., on a freezing winter night, it was already dark.

As she had been told, Karen handed the brown attaché case to Ortega, who headed for the men’s room just a short distance away. He was followed by Bolt and Reyes. Brushing snow from herself, Karen walked over to the newsstand and began thumbing through a copy of TIME magazine.

Patting the .32 in his overcoat pocket, Bolt wondered if he could get his hands on that fifty thousand dollars. Ortega had slipped him the gun while they were in the men’s room of the plane. At the same time, he had told Bolt what the attaché case contained, and that it was the down payment on a shipment of cocaine. He figured Bolt could be trusted now that they were so close to the meeting place.

Ortega was’ to turn the money over to two men waiting in the men’s room, who would count it later. They had no worry about DeTorres screwing them. If it wasn’t all there, there would be no cocaine deal. It was that simple.

Pushing his way into the men’s room, Ortega held the door for Joey Reyes, who walked through without holding it for Bolt. “Wise-ass spick,” thought the narc as he followed the two Cubans into the yellow-painted john, with the usual black-and-white checkered tile floor.

As soon as they walked in, a short black man, with blue-tinted glasses, mustache, and goatee, walked over to the door behind them and placed a sign on the doorknob reading, “NOT WORKING, USE ROOM IN FAR CORNER. THANK YOU.”

The short black man wore the dark green uniform of a janitor. Dangling a bucket at his side, he stood in front of the door. Looking down at the bucket, he bent over and lifted up a rag, again checking the .38 in the bucket.

Then he took a deep breath and smiled.

Inside the men’s room, it was empty and stinking. The sharp odor of piss and ammonia cleanser sliced at Bolt’s nose.

It was too quiet for the narc, whose instinct for survival had been sharpened by having people try to kill him in places that were too quiet. What’s more, he didn’t like the fact that all five toilet booths had closed doors.

He heard the

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