"The vans were stolen from a single firm, but when I started checking into it, I learned they weren't the only ones. Turns out we've had a dozen moving vans and semirigs ripped off right here in Dade these past two months."

"Is that unusual?" Bolan asked.

"Damn right. These rigs were empties, mind you, nothing worth a hijack, and they're too conspicuous to keep around for long. I mean, nobody goes for midnight joyrides in a semitractor."

"Someone's moving contraband?"

"It reads that way, but all the major fences use commercial lines. It cuts the risk to zero."

"So you're looking at a special cargo.''

"That's affirmative." He shot a piercing glance at Bolan. "Something like a load of stolen arms."

"Speculation?"

Hannon shook his head.

"I wish it were. When I was checking out the vans, I sorted through all kinds of other theft reports — including ordnance from Camp Blanding, south of Jacksonville, and from the naval training station at Orlando. Both within the past eight weeks."

Mack Bolan felt a tightness spreading in his gut.

"What kind of ordnance?"

"Name it. Small arms, ammunition, hand grenades and rocket launchers. Someone's sitting on enough hardware to start a private army."

"You figure some connection with the trucks?"

Hannon frowned.

"The street talk here backs it up," he said. "There's a bottomless market for arms in south Florida — terrorists, drug runners, exiles from all over Central America. They're buying anything that shoots."

"Okay. You're still a country mile from Tommy Drake."

"Not necessarily. I was supposed to meet with an informant who could put it all together, but...." He checked his watch. "Looks like I'm going to miss him."

"Just as well," the soldier told him. "If he didn't set you up himself, he may be in the bag already. If he's clear..."